Mass Effect: Second Law of Thermodynamics
by Raven Studios
Summary: Shepard finds herself returning to her solo-operative roots to thwart an imminent Reaper invasion. Meanwhile, there's no rest for the wicked as Shepard's fellow N7s, Eva Rogers and John Sheffler, are forced to decide where they stand as the Reaper War draws closer. (Cover images all belong to Bioware. As with Mass Effect, I'm just borrowing them and giving credit where it's due.)
1. Vindication

Mass Effect is property of Bioware.

Welcome to Second Law of Thermodynamics (and a short-winded author's note)! By now you know the drill: a picture's worth a thousand words, so a short coverage of _Arrival_ and serious attention to peripheral matters appear in thousand-word vignettes. This stuff just didn't fit comfortably with Newton's Second or First Thermodynamics, so here it is as its own thing.

Thank you for reading and supporting this project!

~Raven Studios

-J-

 **-MASS EFFECT: THE SECOND LAW OF THERMODYNAMICS-**

 _The Second Law of Thermodynamics states that_ _any cyclic process the entropy will either increase or remain the same. (Entropy being a measure of the amount of energy which is unavailable to do work.)_

-J-

"Shepard," Garrus did not knock, nor did Shepard expect him to: the list of people who had absolute unrestricted access to the Commander at all times ('wake me up any time you need me' access) could be counted on one human hand: they consisted of Garrus himself, Tali, Dr. Chakwas and Joker. The old crew, the closest thing to family Shepard had, arguably the only thing she had left.

If Alenko was here, Garrus thought dryly, he would be on that list too—but in a very professional capacity, knowing Shepard. Personal considerations came a long, long way down her list. The human military was strange that way. But Alenko wasn't, and even now that the initial disgust had passed, Garrus couldn't help a disappointed exhale and shake of his head.

"Yes?" Shepard motioned him to the chair without turning around, then pressed the 'send' key on her latest email. "What's up?"

The dead silence of the room was telling: Shepard hated working in silence. When she did, it meant her own thoughts were far too loud or too unpleasant. "Have you seen the news recently?" The turian settled his lanky frame in the chair, squirming a bit to get comfortable. Human chairs were _short_.

"I don't think I've seen anything—including the bottom of my inbox—in _days_." She sighed, turning away from the screen, then turning it off. "You know what?" Garrus, bemused, shook his head as she rubbed her eyes wearily. "I'm _done_. No more email, no more 'Shepard fix it'. I'm…going on _vacation_."

There was a very pronounced silence before Shepard and Garrus both laughed—though he noted there was something wrong with Shepard's. It sounded almost like…almost as though it was _painful_ for her, not quite a sob, not hysterical, but clear evidence of the kind of pressure she was under.

Waiting sucked. And for Shepard, waiting meant remaining labeled an insane, terrorist-supporting, pro-human bigot in the eyes of the wider galaxy. It was not so much that she cared what the wider galaxy thought; she cared because she knew that it wasn't really like that.

Still, the declaration of intent to go on _vacation_ made him smile. Her weariness and the silence of the room made him decide not to try to conceal the amusement. There was no point. When he first met her, first worked with her, there was a pronounced student-mentor vein to their relationship. Now, they were obviously equals, so much so that she let him see a lot more of what she actually thought and felt than possibly anyone else on the ship.

Wordlessly he handed her a datapad, mandibles waving gently. A little good news couldn't go amiss; good news being in short supply these days, the ominous articles would be cheering if only because it was a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel that meant vindication might be in the wings.

 _That_ would do her more good than anything else…except maybe Alenko getting himself straightened out and back on the bandwagon.

Shepard took the datapad, but did not look at it, heaving a heavy sigh. "You don't mind if I…" She motioned to the minifridge by her knee before looking at it wistfully.

"No, no, go ahead. I'll pass. That stuff'll kill you." He had always found it puzzling: most humans he knew would prefer a cold beer at the end of a long, hard day. But not Shepard. Never Shepard, and yet he caught her several times watching someone's beer as though she would very much like one…yet she never followed through on the desire.

"Are you kidding? Anything in excess will kill you."

"How many are you pounding in a day?"

"Three. Most days." Shepard shrugged, unperturbed. "What about you? You're always drinking that green stuff. Looks _nuclear_ to me."

"It probably _would_ be nuclear to you; you levos are _so_ delicate." He ended on a rumbling laugh as he crossed his arms behind his head.

"Delicate? _Me_?" Shepard gave a less painful laugh. "I haven't been 'delicate' since…ugh, you know, I don't even remember."

"Quit stalling, read the damn newspaper," he pointed at the datapad. "Bad news never looked so good."

Shepard made a face at him, but settled back in her chair, brows furrowing in concentration. The soft drink froze halfway to her mouth, canted dangerously as she read, her eyes widening as she took in a deep breath and held it as she skimmed the articles.

"Bet it'll feel good to be vindicated," he noted quietly when Shepard set the soda bottle down too hard on the desk.

The contents sloshed, causing Shepard to swear before rooting around for something to wipe the liquid up. She paused in sopping up the mess. "To be honest…" and there was a note of rueful hope in her voice, "I _had_ kind of hoped to be vindicated _before_ they kicked in our door."

"Well, it looks like you might get it. Third parties can't do anything but shore up what you've been saying all these years."

"You know…" she cast the datapad aside, "it was never really about me being right. Admitting I'm right would mean people could start preparing for this. But…I get this nasty feeling that the more I hope for…"

"Hard to prepare for something like Reapers, though."

"Yes." Shepard swallowed. "But every little bit helps."

"Let's not think about that shit. It's depressing." Garrus announced flatly, looking away from Shepard's grim expression and cast-down eyes. He knew she was looking into a future where the Reapers razed everything without opposition.

Being right didn't matter. Being prepared did.

"Here, I'm done for the day," Shepard shut off her terminal, stowed his datapad in—of all places—the mini-fridge, and fished out a battered deck of playing cards. "Want a little Skyllian Five?"

"I suck worse at Skyllian Five than you do. I'll teach you one." He held out a hand for the deck.

Shepard, interested and diverted, handed it over.

-J-

Author's Note: This was written in response to one of the Cerberus News blips. Mai-Danishgirl actually went looking for the articles and forwarded them to me. So special thanks are very much in order. ^_^

The article this chapter responds to is "1/24/2011: Paper Suggests Mass Relays Predate Protheans."


	2. Assignment

" _You wanted to talk to me, Admiral_?" Shepard asked.

The FTL projection did not entirely hide the squint in her eyes evidencing that he'd woken her up for this call, not the traces of bruises or the split lip. If she had been anyone else, he'd have suspected a bar fight that got out of hand, but Shepard neither got into bar fights nor would she come out the worse if she did.

"Commander." He returned her salute easily, looked her up and down. "You look a little rough."

" _I feel really rough_."

"You ready to come home?" It would take a little maneuvering, but he was sure he could arrange something. It wouldn't be without consequences, but her service record was sterling, Anderson had re-instated her as a Spectre, and Shepard would not jump ship with Cerberus without taking whatever assets she had on hand with her.

" _Yes_." Shepard eyed Hackett closely. " _You ready to fight this war, sir_?"

She came to that aspect pretty quick. But Shepard was not one to beat around the bush once the time for pleasantries was over. It made her easy in some respects, to deal with. "That's what this is about, Commander."

Shepard came to full alert, her entire attention bent on him with the fixity some people found so discomforting,

"I need someone I can trust, and you have the necessary clearances. And the necessary credentials."

" _You don't want this to come back to you_."

Accurate and astute, but not entirely correct. "The situation is delicate. I don't ask for favors very often, Commander, but I am asking now _._ " 'Asking.' That made this very important, since he wanted her willing cooperation.

" _Where am I going_?"

Straight to business, then. Good. "Into the Terminus Systems."

" _Can you be more specific_?"

"Ever hear of Aratoht? It's in the Bahak system."

" _No. Sounds batarian, though_."

She would know. "Very good, Commander."

" _Sir, with all due respect, I don't think sending me, of all people, would be at all delicate_."

"With all due respect, Commander, it would be the most delicate: you have more incentive to keep your head down than anybody else."

Blunt usually worked best with Shepard. Deep down, Hackett knew—and could admit to himself—that Shepard did not exert herself to be slippery or difficult with him. She felt she had no reason, so she didn't waste the energy. If she ever changed her mind, though…that would be an interesting day. " _What do you need from me_?" Shepard asked after a few moments of studying his face.

"A deep cover operative, Amanda Kenson, recently reported evidence of an imminent Reaper invasion…I thought that would get your attention." For, upon the word 'Reaper', Shepard's aspect that changed: her lips thinned, her face grew set, as though carved in stone, and even across space he could almost feel the quivering intensity gathering about her. "Now you know why it has to be you."

" _Yes_." The one word left the door open to further instructions.

"She was arrested on charges of terrorism by batarian authorities early this morning."

Shepard's lips thinned. Batarians weren't known for keeping their prisoners long.

"Infiltrate the prison, get Amanda out."

" _Anything else_?" Shepard asked tersely, evidently ready to set off at once.

"Yes. I want you to go in alone, no big team, no questionable help. I want one of my best N7s to conduct this operation quietly and efficiently."

Shepard's eyes narrowed, then she nodded. " _Yes, sir_."

"Let's get to it, Commander."

Shepard saluted sharply. " _I'll do what I can, then be in touch_."

-J-

Shepard severed the connection, standing in silence for a moment before turning to EDI's display nook in the wall. "EDI, can you authenticate that message?"

"I can. It is authentic," EDI responded.

Shepard put that concern aside; not that she really expected an elaborate trap, but something about this mission set off warning bells in the mind of a well-trained soldier. It would not be her first covert operation, or her first solo operation…maybe it was just the fact that the mission was smack in the middle of batarian space (as far as she was concerned, that was _exactly_ what this was). "EDI, find me the Bahak system and redirect us."

"Done. Done. Coordinates have been entered in the galaxy map," EDI replied promptly.

"Good. Take us out. Let me know when we have an hour's ETA."

There was bad voodoo about this, an extra incentive not to get caught. Oh, the press would have a field day…and she understood in a very graphic way why espionage operatives so often employed cyanide teeth. No, she had powerful incentives not to get caught. She'd need to make sure her tactical cloak was in good working order. And pack a second on—if she could find one—just in case.

And take her particle beam. And her shotgun. A full loadout, of course. Extra ammunition. Extra shields. Could she carry the Cain as well? Half a charge would do impressive damage, and she might need a distraction like 'impressive damage'…

She shook herself, quenched the paranoia with the ice water of longstanding practice. In, rescue Kenson, ascertain the Reaper threat being researched, report back to Hackett. A tactical cloak should be all she needed—apart from a full loadout. She'd need to fly the Kodiak, leave it somewhere safe, then she'd proceed on foot.

No problems there: the Hegemony might make itself look impressive on paper, but Alliance intel had always supported the theory that the Hegemony was impressive _only_ on paper. She was unlikely to come up against any particularly sophisticated containment or security systems.

Shepard sat down at her desk, rolling a stylus around with one finger, brooding over the unpleasant turn things had taken. Well, high-risk missions always made an impression on those who ever heard about them; if she completed this operation successfully, maybe that was what Hackett would need, both to bring her home and to start preparing for a war.


	3. Slither

She felt bad about keeping her remaining crew in the dark. It was one of those rare times where there were no answers, just 'go here and wait.' The _Normandy_ was out there somewhere, loitering in the system, waiting for her to call in for them to come meet her. She knew EDI had more information than most, but the AI had, to Shepard's knowledge, kept silent. It showed in Joker's concern and dislike of being out here, in the middle of nowhere—a very hostile middle of nowhere if Shepard was seen and recognized—without any idea why they were there…and with her on a solo mission.

It was the last thought she could afford to give to her crew and her ship: she'd arrived at her insertion point. It had to be all business now.

She took a deep breath and slipped out of the Kodiak. She had to walk from the shuttle to the facility's insertion point so as not to call attention to her arrival. It was one of the few times she'd wished for a Mako drop, but she didn't let herself dwell on it.

The landscape was not hostile, but definitely contrary: it rained heavily, turning the ground and grasses into soppy, pulpy soup. Lightning forked in the sky and thunder rumbled like an orchestra's kettle drums nearby. The whole place smelled dank, and the air clung close, like the breath of a drunkard trying to hit on her.

The facility where Dr. Kenson was being detained proved to be an old, solid, redoubtable-looking facility whose original function was unknown but which looked like a hodgepodge of military surplus cobbled together around a series of basic, permanent dwellings. It had heavy defense cannons and movable revetments, portable shield generators and lots of guards…

…but the power junction boxes were easy to find and undefended. Shepard didn't even need to break out her tools to get it open. She might have taken this as a good sign, but training didn't permit the optimism. Nor did she feel pessimistic: she was back to doing what she'd been trained to do, infiltrate an enemy-held location, cause a little trouble, don't get caught.

Nerves vanished when training took over, and Shepard knew she was superbly trained.

She also had a stealth generator and, while it caused a distortion in the air, someone who didn't know to look for the distortion would miss it altogether. Stealth technology was not readily available to the public yet, so it never occurred to people who hadn't spent time fighting geth to look for the 'wobble' in a landscape.

Then again, she wasn't geth.

The building was solid, built to last, depressing—almost something she would have expected to see on Tuchanka, only with more undamaged walls. She drew her pistol, checked the draw of her knife. For these kinds of missions, where little noise was essential, it usually boiled down to a pistol and a knife. Some N7s specialized in more exotic silent tools, but she preferred to stick to the basics. Fewer things could go wrong.

They had guard varren in the guts of the building, but this did not trouble Shepard. The pattern of 'see, shoot, suspend' (see the enemy, shoot the enemy, suspend action to check for detection) served her flawlessly.

The place was grim, the pipes and electrical workings corroded or half-dead. She would have liked to set up something to keep the occupants busy, but she couldn't risk Kenson being moved. It was possible she would be left to burn to death if a fire alarm sounded, but it was possible she wouldn't.

Shepard stopped beside a stairwell, took a moment to check herself. It didn't take long—the practice of 'think between the seconds' was second nature. She'd done it almost every time she set foot off the Normandy over the past few months, and more in the past few weeks than at any other time in her life.

She crept up the stairs, her ears pricked for any kind of sound that might tell her something about what she could expect to find on the other side of the door at the top. She heard nothing, so she turned on her stealth generator, waited for the odd shiver to pass (she hated the way the shiver got into her ears), then proceeded forward.

Communications hub, or maybe the full security office. Whatever it was, the workspace was sheltered enough that—as long as no one walked over to have a look at it—she could work in peace. She fabricated a few proximity mines, synched them to her omnitool, and tossed them into the corridor. Their little red lights blinked once, then turned off. She would have enough time to turn her stealth generator on in case anyone came this way.

The terminal was not heavily protected—apparently no one was supposed to make it this far in. It took her a moment to filter the text through her omnitool so she could understand what it said. Within minutes, she knew why Kenson was here and where Kenson actually was.

She was not sure she believed the charges, but it did not make sense to make something like that up when, supposedly, no one knew where Kenson was. She'd ask about it when the time came. That sort of action was…drastic.

There was no shiver of fear, not 'but if the Reapers…', nothing. She was on a very specific mission and, like a good operative, blocked the nonessentials. Reapers didn't exist until the mission was over.

Something tripped one of her proximity mines. Her hand shot down and turned her generator back on. She waited in silent stillness as a guard trudged up the corridor, took a cursory look around, then stumped away again.

She paused, then began working furiously at the console.

Within minutes she permitted herself the smallest of smug smiles: when the time of stealth finally passed, things would get _very_ interesting.


	4. Urging

Amanda Kenson watched blankly as, seeming to melt out of the very air, a human commando appeared, grabbed the unsuspecting batarian guard and plunged a knife skillfully in the soft spot between skull and neck. The body went lax and the soldier, after disengaging her knife, eased the body onto the ground.

The soldier straightened, brilliantly-colored eyes fixed on her face. "Doctor?"

"Ye-es?" Kenson asked uncertainly.

The soldier nodded once as if confirming something, then disappeared out of Kenson's visual range.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, a little sharply.

"I'm Commander Shepard; Admiral Hackett sent me to get you out of here."

 **[…Shepard…]**

Kenson blinked several times, moistened her lips which were suddenly dryer than ever.

Suddenly, the restraints holding her released. She would have collapsed face first had Shepard not anticipated the moment of weakness and disorientation.

 **[Detain Shepard.]**

"Steven? He received my message?" That was good news…and this timely rescue was the best news possible.

"Loud and clear. Do you think you can walk?" Suddenly, Shepard held up a hand for silence, flattened herself against the wall, and triggered whatever-it-was that made her almost invisible. Kenson lost track of the rippling distortion in the air, but heard a very faint sound, accompanied by a heavy object hitting the ground. "We have to go. Now."

 **[Detain Shepard.]**

"Yes," Kenson agreed, looking around.

Shepard cued her omnitool, began to work briskly, her ears pricked for oncoming footsteps.

"What are you doing?" Kenson got slowly to her feet, found them steady beneath her, but only because of the iron-strong determination that Shepard had to be relocated to home base. It was the safest place.

 **[The very safest place. She must not stop the Arrival.]**

Kenson's brows knit as the whispers coalesced into audible, pounding mental sound.

"I hacked into the system earlier, set some surprises up," came the vague answer.

"Surprises?"

Shepard's mouth twisted into a grim smile. "I'm going to give them what they expect. Come here," Shepard beckoned to her, unclipped from her web gear a small device like a shield generator. "This turns it on. This turns it off." She clipped the generator to Kenson's belt. "Let me see you do it."

Kenson obeyed, turned the generator on, felt the shiver as the field activated, then turned it back off.

"Good. I have a shuttle on call—we're going to go back the way I came in. Not a lot of guards, and there'll be less in a few minutes." Then, seeing that Kenson meant to make further inquiries into the plan, "I'm going to sound an intruder alert. Send them off in the wrong direction."

 **[Detain Shepard. She must not stop the Arrival]**

"I see." It was a decent plan, as far as plans went.

Alarms suddenly began blaring. "Cue your generator. Keep it running unless I tell you otherwise." Shepard vanished a moment before Kenson herself did. It was disconcerting when Shepard's invisible hand reached out, took her by the arm, and began to pull her along.

 **[Shepard must not stop the Arrival.]**

And Shepard would try. She couldn't kill Shepard outright, but she could…Object Rho. That might be of some use. It gave visions. It might show Shepard how wrong she was, would be, to oppose the Arrival. She was confused; the Prothean Beacon had to be responsible for that. With their lies burned into her mind and memory how could she not be prone to mistaken beliefs…?

 **[Detain Shepard.]**

It was not easy to follow Shepard, especially when the soldier stopped short—there was usually little warning, which meant Kenson was prone to walking right into her. Shepard took it in stride, though. The cascading effects Shepard had preprogrammed—which seemed to amuse the soldier—really did make it look like they were escaping in the opposite direction: fire alarms, power failures, communication lines jamming…and no one was sure where the infiltration unit (when the comms did work, the batarians were convinced they were dealing with a unit) actually was.

It might have been amusing had the tight grip on her wrist not indicated how seriously Shepard took this escape, and how often the soldier stopped, as if somehow checking the air, like a tracking dog coming across an unfamiliar smell.

 **[Detain Shepard.]**

She would need to warn the others, have them get ready. Kenson took careful note of the chain of events Shepard's…system bomb…created. She would know, should Shepard somehow try it at the facility, what to look for and what to ignore. That pesky tactical cloak—which gave out and had to be reactivated several times—would be a problem.

Shepard seemed to have the interval during which it offered protection before sputtering out memorized to the second. They were always in an unobserved corner when the cloak needed to be 'reset'—that was Shepard's word for it.

 **[Detain Shepard.]**

And she would. She had to. Shepard would try to stop the Arrival. She couldn't be allowed to do it.

Shepard heaved a sigh of relief as they gained the outdoors. The rain still fell hard, the air still clung uncomfortably, but they were outside. Within moments they were visible and headed for Shepard's shuttle. "You came alone? You're braver than I expected," Kenson announced, then winced. 'Expected' was not a word that should be used…

…but Shepard seemed to think that notoriety left people with many expectations, and she did not come to full alert at the word. "Hackett was explicit. This happens quietly."

"Well, it has at that," Kenson agreed.

"Do you have coordinates for where we're going, or will you need to pilot?" Shepard asked.

 **[Detain Shepard.]**

That was better than Kenson could have hoped for. "I'll need to pilot…and as soon as possible, I need to get in contact with the others. They'll want to know I'm safe."

Shepard nodded her agreement to this, then led Kenson around a bank of undergrowth, and there was a Kodiak, waiting quietly.

 **[Detain Shepard. She must not stop the Arrival.]**


	5. Wrong Place

Shepard thought that she might just have found the point when her nerves couldn't take any more surprises…or bad news. The idea of slamming an asteroid into a mass relay was staggering—the unknowns were bad, but this was a populated system, with presumably hundreds of thousands of people. Seeing that the Reapers' arrival could take place in as little as two days was terrifying.

Seeing an unshielded Reaper artifact of large size and undefined purpose…that was almost too much. "Kenson!" she barked, backing away from the object. "You have the Reaper artifact just _sitting_ here?!"

Realizing that Kenson—and her team—had been _exposed_ to an unshielded Reaper artifact of large size and undefined purpose for an undefined amount of time…

Her mind suddenly sized up: she was surrounded by Indoctrinated people, a Reaper artifact was menacing her, the Reapers were coming (on this count she was inclined to believe Kenson, Indoctrinated or not) and she was going to have to destroy a mass relay, possibly everyone and everything on this side of it to stop them…

"Give it a moment, Shepard," Kenson answered calmly.

"Oh-ho no…" Shepard made to draw her pistol, mentally apologizing to Hackett, but she was _not_ going to sit here and let the Reapers come barging through the galaxy's back door. She blocked the death toll that would come from this out of her mind; she could deal with it later. She apologized a second time when she realized that this mission was a failure: the Indoctrinated would, unless they were made of very strong stuff to begin with, die before they let their orders be thwarted.

Shepard's eyes slid to Object Rho again…

…it was like the Prothean beacon all over again, only worse. She lost herself entirely, felt herself blotted out as the Reapers came pouring out of the relay, was unable to scream as they zoomed out of the system in every direction imaginable to every relay—active or dormant—in the galaxy.

She hit the ground, the pain in her knees giving her a point of reference. Her mind seemed to rotate within her skull, her hands shook, her thoughts shook, and even training was not enough to get her back on her feet.

"I can't let you stop the Project, Shepard," Kenson's voice was hazy, but the sense of her pistol—the weapon she could most easily reach—being dragged free gave her a further point of reference, and told her exactly where Dr. Kenson was standing.

Shepard blinked, willing fear and adrenaline to break this sort of terror-induced paralysis. The Reapers' arrival had always frightened her, but this…seeing it, even as a 'vision'…it nearly undid her.

'Nearly' because she wasn't sobbing on the ground in a fetal position, accepting that there was nothing she could do. That put a bit of heart into her, triggered the reactions she needed. Training suddenly came back to her. Kenson might be an operative for Hackett, but she was no soldier. Shepard had marked it during their escape. Kenson was just a scientist with a few hours of field survival training.

Shepard surged to her feet, turned, grabbed the wrist behind the gun and—as Kenson tried to pull free, startled by the sudden jump to action—slammed the heel of her hand into the doctor's elbow. The joint did the only thing it could against a blow like that: the elbow broke, even as Shepard let go of the wrist to grab the gun. The whole maneuver was textbook perfect, smooth and effective.

Kenson, reacting to the violent pain, staggered aside.

Shepard's mind had already catalogued that she and Kenson were no longer alone: others from the Project had come in, either to watch her or to bask in the presence of the artifact. The pistol came up as if it had free will, her finger squeezed the trigger.

Kenson jumped at her with a yell, wrapped her good arm around Shepard's throat.

Shepard was out of the inexpert headlock in a second, her fist shooting out to strike Kenson in the face.

Kenson fell back, but Shepard's moment of action while all others remained virtually inactive had passed: small arms fire lit up her shields, forcing her to take cover.

"Take her down!" Kenson snarled, her voice hard. "But don't kill her!"

Shepard's blood froze as she glanced around, found the best position from which to mount her defense, and hurried to it, vaulting a low wall and easing around some kind of console. She needed a plan, a plan to get the Project back on track…

 _But don't kill her_.

Harbinger had said something to that effect.

She shivered at the thought, forcing the question of how long it would take for Object Rho to begin influencing _her_ out of her thoughts. She switched to her rifle, peeped over her barrier, then stood up, letting off three-round bursts, and dropped down.

The Project might have been comprised of scientists, but they had security personnel too, and it was security that threw themselves into her line of fire.

At first they seemed to think she would not shoot at them, but that notion was soon dispelled. Then, they seemed to rely on the idea that if she was pinned she was helpless, and they could simply wait for her to run out of ammunition and then swarm her.

They were security.

But an N7 was more than a soldier. It bothered her, in a dim, distant way, that these people could just throw themselves at her, one after another, without taking a moment to think about tactics or try to come up with something like a plan.

Suddenly, Object Rho let off a pulse, a pulse so powerful it staggered her, forced her out of her tenuous cover. A second pulse caught her, flung her against a wall.

Blackness set in, and in the recesses of her mind as she spiraled down into the darkness, was a howl of failure.


	6. Confer

_Shepard grunted in discomfort as she rolled her head from shoulder to shoulder, seeking to work out kinks and small misalignments. "This is crazy-ridiculous," she growled, sliding her rucksack from her shoulders. She didn't let out a groan as the weight vanished, but flopped it between her feet and tore it open with a little more vigor than was needed._

 _Anderson chuckled at this. "You've gone soft."_

 _Shepard looked up at him, a grim smile spreading across her features. After a significant look in the direction of his midriff she returned to savaging her backpack. "I refrain from making the obvious retort."_

 _Anderson slid his own pack off, rummaging through it with less vim than Shepard. "Don't worry, Shepard: age and treachery will always overcome youth and skill."_

" _I would hope so." Shepard finally found what she sought: a ration pack, which she promptly slit open with her field knife. "Ah, lucky day." She held up the fruit component. "Peaches."_

" _About time we had a little luck," Anderson glanced skyward through the trees beneath which they were taking their repast. "Bad weather's moving in."_

" _Bad weather's always moving in." Shepard cast him a sly look. "You're not afraid of getting wet, are you?"_

 _Anderson snorted at this, began preparing the instant coffee in his own ration pack. "Have poncho, will travel. You forget I've been doing this longer than you have."_

" _Mmm…that's true. Here's to you." Shepard settled back with her peaches, but didn't start eating them. "You know, I keep promising myself I'll come to these get-togethers a little more often. Play in the mud with the others, take a break from all the bullshit."_

" _Why don't you? Come to think of it, why'd you come this time?"_

 _Shepard was silent. "I don't go…because it's always one crap assignment after another…and…" she bit her lip, not wanting to say that even among fellow N-operatives she felt…out of place. Like she didn't really belong to them anymore._

" _Yeah," Anderson nodded. "And this time?"_

 _Shepard shrugged. "You asked, I came. Something simple for once."_

" _Good to know." Anderson nodded._

 _Shepard shrugged again, this time because she refrained from pointing out that David Anderson was the best operatives the N program had ever turned out, and when he asked one to come play weekend warrior…well, one went to play weekend warrior. She wasn't sure why he'd wanted her, but she respected him enough to accede to the request. "You going to tell me why I'm here?"_

" _You drew the short straw and got stuck with the old man?" Anderson responded. "Damn—this stuff never tastes like coffee."_

" _Of course not: it never was coffee. They showed it a picture of coffee and said 'that's coffee; be that'. Everyone knows it's just brown plastic."_

"' _Everyone' might just be right." He poured out the liquid wistfully._

" _I don't buy the short straw story, you know." Shepard put her untouched peaches aside, careful to keep them where she wouldn't inadvertently kick them._

" _Storm's coming," Anderson answered._

 _Shepard frowned at the horizon, upon which black clouds began to bubble. There was no lightning as yet, but the promise of that and more waited, gaining strength. "That's going to be a real bitch when it hits. Think we can weather that?"_

 _Anderson did not respond for a moment. "I dunno—looks pretty rough."_

" _Well, we'll do our best," Shepard answered philosophically. "After all: what's the worst that can happen?"_

" _I really hope you never see 'worst', Shepard."_

 _Shepard picked up her peaches, but found she didn't really want them anymore. Anderson's words seemed to strike her to the heart, full of import and of dark meaning. "You're starting to scare me, Anderson. This is still training."_

" _Yeah," Anderson nodded, still looking out at the growing storm. "I guess I can be scared for the both of us. Just remember that sometimes training becomes reality pretty damn fast."_

" _Yeah, so does looking for a souvenir." That was how it went on Elysium: one moment she was looking for a souvenir, the next moment she was putting everything she ever learned or read about into play._

" _Doesn't look like Elysium to me," Anderson shook his head, taking his eyes off the storm._

 _Shepard stood up, moved so she had a better look at the storm. "No…" her blood chilled in her veins, though she wrote it off as nerves and Anderson's almost baleful mood. "Kinda looks worse." She forced a smile but found that, while she fully intended the comment to be humorous, while she'd found it mildly so when she thought of it, when she spoke the words they lost all brevity. "I've never seen a storm that bad."_

 _The clouds, now laced with ominous lightning and low rolls of thunder, began to perceptibly creep forward. The air grew still and heavy, forcing Shepard to think about breathing—otherwise she needed up holding her breath._

" _Nope." Anderson heaved himself to his feet. "Neither have I—but we've got our game plan."_

" _We should move," Shepard said before hastily packing up her lunch—she could finish it later. Suddenly this wooded hilltop seemed far too exposed._

" _I think you're right…just remember: I'll keep us a step ahead, you keep us alive."_

" _I like that plan: it's simple. I don't see simple plans very often, anymore." Shepard shook her head before swinging her rucksack onto her aching shoulders._

" _If you think this plan's simple, you're not thinking like an operator."_

" _Figure of speech: I take it back."_

 _Anderson nodded approval of the retraction. They both flinched at a boom of thunder that seemed to rock the ground beneath their feet._

-J-

Shepard's face contracted as her mind slithered free of the cloud of sedatives. The drug haze of disorientation made going back to sleep desirable, but something niggled at the back of her mind. She hated playing Weekend Warrior. Being awake was better…

Her eyes fluttered open.

A lab. She'd woken up on a lab.

Sleep was better. Waking was necessary.


	7. Red Button

Shepard discovered within moments of her escape from the locked-down medbay that she had chewed through most of the security personnel while they'd waited for Object Rho to do whatever it did (her mind recoiled, wondering what nearly two days sedated in that _thing's_ vicinity had done to her). This left her facing scientists with guns, scientists who were half-terrified of her, and grew more so as they watched their colleagues fall.

The only reason they didn't lay down their arms and get out of her way was the indoctrination. She supposed this had something to do with a failsafe way for the Reapers—Harbinger in particular—to wipe her out. She ought to feel flattered that she was such a thorn in their mechanical sides, but it was a compliment she could have lived without.

And Kenson was still out there, Kenson, through whose eyes Shepard witnessed Harbinger looking out at her. Hackett wouldn't like that Kenson had just become a priority target, but he'd take it more philosophically once he knew that she'd been Indoctrinated enough for a Reaper to manipulate her like a hand puppet.

It brought something home about Indoctrination that Shepard had previously not realized. Or maybe she had and just hadn't bothered to think about it: if you didn't know the person, you wouldn't see the symptoms.

Her skin crawled. She'd need a psych eval after this. She'd need to be sure the Reapers didn't have their mechanical tentacles wrapped around her mind. The true test would come when it came time to push the button, to launch this hunk of rock into the relay, to defer the invasion by…weeks? Months?

She wasn't lucky enough for 'years.'

She wasn't fool enough to believe 'forever.'

"Welcome to Project control," the VI announced as Shepard cued the console.

"I want to activate the Project." Her stomach went cold at the words, but the lack of visible options left her no alternatives. It was like with the Destiny Ascension: the lives present for the lives everywhere. The few for the many.

But that didn't make it easy or palatable.

"Warning: activating the Project will result in an estimated three hundred and five thousand casualties. Do you wish to continue?"

Three hundred four thousand, nine hundred and forty two deaths, to be exact, and all Shepard's extremities went cold. No, she didn't 'wish to continue'!

But there were no other visible options…

Shepard clenched her teeth, thumping one hand on the console. Then, her eyes fixed on the screen, burning the number of people she was about to trade for an uncertain period of Reaper-free time into her memory, she cued the activation sequence.

Three hundred four thousand, nine hundred and forty two people.

…but there was something she could do for them…

"Project activation in progress. Warning: collision with mass relay is imminent. Begin evacuation procedures."

Shepard was already hacked into the communication channels. "To all colonists living in the Bahak system. An asteroid is about to—" the channel suddenly flashed an alert: signal unavailable.

Before Shepard could make to disable the blackout, Kenson's shriek cut across the radios. " _Shepard, no! Do you have any idea what you've done?_ "

Shepard didn't answer. She knew what she'd done.

Three hundred four thousand, nine hundred and forty two men, women, and children obliterated in a single instant.

" _You leave me no choice! If we can't stop this asteroid it must be destroyed_!" the scientist almost howled.

"Hang in there, Kenson. We'll discuss it in person." The words came out as if someone else spoke them. Shepard's actions all seemed mechanical, her mind still trying to count up to that fatal number.

Three hundred four thousand, nine hundred and forty two.

"VI: find Dr. Kenson."

"Dr. Kenson is currently traveling to the reactor core module."

" _An eezo core meltdown should do it_!" Dr. Kenson crowed.

Shepard turned to the console, her fingers working rapidly.

" _What? No_!" Kenson's shriek of protest sounded a moment later.

Shepard couldn't lock down the eezo core—it would take too much time—but she could lock down the cooling rods' stations. Without the new access codes—or a really good tech specialist—Kenson's overload would be limited to an actual physical interaction. It could be rigged in a short time, since Kenson's focus wasn't her own life or death, but it would hopefully be enough time for Shepard to get to her and put an end to the idea in the most final way possible.

"I told you: hang in there, doc."

Three hundred four thousand, nine hundred and forty two.

" _Because of you everyone on this rock will be obliterated_!" Kenson shouted, her voice grating.

"They would be anyway." She had to get to the main comm tower, but she could only do that once Kenson was neutralized. Procedures were very clear: contain the crisis as best she could. She could get a message out…even on short notice _some_ people might escape the impending collision…

…and she wondered, for a moment, if she had a right to escape herself. After all, she'd signed the deaths of all those people…

Three hundred four thousand, nine hundred and forty two.

Shepard shut that part of her mind down. It had to be academic right now.

The mission objectives at this point were clear, so she clung to them in order to have something that was concrete, fixed, within her known sphere of ability. She had to get to Kenson. She had to get communications back up.

She had to know that the body count would be less than that horrible number.

Three hundred four thousand, nine hundred and forty two.

The number was burned into her mind as surely as the Prothean Beacon's message, as surely as the Cipher, as surely as the fear Object Rho's vision: three hundred four thousand, nine hundred and forty two.

She'd never escape it. She'd never be free of it.

Three hundred four thousand, nine hundred and forty two.


	8. Escape

It was like playing chess: she delayed them, they delayed her. She destroyed one of their facilities, they claimed a large population. She fouled their plans, they made her pay for it while they constructed a new one. It was like chess, or a fencing match. For every blow a parry, for every attack a counter.

But she was wearing out, was running out of ways to block them.

She threw the demoralizing thought out of the sandbagged entrenchment in her mind. Kenson was dead, comms needed to be put back online.

 _There's no forgiveness for what you've done!_

On that she and Kenson could agree, but with a different 'what you've done' in mind.

She threw that behind her sandbagged portion of consciousness, too. Despair would slow her reactions, cause her to make mistakes. She couldn't afford mistakes. She couldn't bear it—for the few minutes she'd live if she failed—if all those lives extinguished to no purpose.

She needed this to succeed. It had to.

Fortunately, she'd chewed through most—if not all—the personnel at the facility. They were down to mechs—light combat models since no one, apparently, remained to drive the big hulks.

The mass relay loomed ahead, impossibly huge beyond the horizon and drawing closer. She knew, logically, that the asteroid moved at ridiculous speeds. However, given the scope of 'space' in a galactic sense, the rock—the baseball through the window—moved slowly, gracefully.

She could see the comm tower. This was it…there was still time…

She loaded the warming recording she'd made while in the lift. It was short and to the point: _all residents of the Bahak System_. _An asteroid collision with the mass relay is imminent. Get out while you can. Repeat: get out now._ She set the playback to loop. It was all she could do…

"Joker?" Part of her seemed to die as she hailed her ship. "Shepard to Normandy. Joker, do you read me?"

Did she deserve to get out…she could still tell him to cut bait and run, that she couldn't make it out in time…

" **Shepard.** "

Shepard's mouth froze, open to repeat the hail. She turned, very slowly, her words low, almost a whisper, "Joker, come get me."

She found herself looking at a hologram of a Reaper, much like Sovereign in design but unique unto itself. She could not be certain, but instinct told her _this_ was the Reaper they had dubbed Harbinger, the thing coordinating the Collectors. Something about them matched.

Despite impending death, despite the impending massacre, Shepard steeled herself with reserves she didn't know she had. This… _thing_ …wouldn't have the satisfaction of knowing it got to her, that it landed a blow, the damage from which she couldn't yet quantify.

' _Next time you want me, come in person_.' Her hissed defiance before knifing the avatar echoed in her mind.

"Ah, you got my message, did you?" There was no actual stopping the Reapers from showing up, but she _would_ _not_ give them the satisfaction of seeing fear, doubt, anything other than what the situation demanded. Not this obsessive freak. In the same way her own defiance came back to her mental ears, so too did the various avatars' canned threats about knowing pain and fear.

She walked up to where the hologram hovered, her expression drawn into tight lines.

" **You have become an annoyance. You fight against inevitability.** _ **Dust**_ **struggling against cosmic winds.** "

"Did I hear _emphasis_ on 'dust'?" Shepard asked. "Can a machine even _get_ annoyed?" She couldn't let this thing distract her. It would try to keep her talking, make her miss the Normandy's flyby…assuming the Normandy even got her message.

" **This seems a victory to you. A star system sacrificed. But even now your greatest civilizations are doomed to fall. Your leaders will beg to be harvested.** "

"Maybe they have in the past, but not this time. We killed Sovereign, we've stalled you. If you want a war, bring your lunch: you'll need it." Much of it was bravado, and hope, but she would rather die than admit it. If she didn't believe they could be stopped no one else would. Her inner resolve firmed up under this new assertion.

" **Know this as you die in vain: your time will come. Your species will fall. Prepare yourself…for the Arrival.** "

" _Shepard, Normandy inbound for pickup._ " Beyond the hologram, Shepard saw the Normandy swoop past.

"Prepare yourself…for disappointment, you synthetic asshole." Shepard took off at a sprint, pushing every ounce of energy she had into keeping upright and keeping up momentum. The Normandy was so close…

She jumped onto the cargo bay's loading ramp, which immediately began to close.

"Get us out of here!" she shouted.

"To what coo-" EDI began.

Shepard didn't think as she raced up to the CIC, shouting the first system name she could think of. "Omega!"

'Omega.' The last letter of the ancient Greek alphabet.

She burst into the CIC, watched the galaxy map's array of systems with mass relays. Suddenly, the Bahak system's cluster began to ripple, then it went dark. "Are we out of the system?" Shepard asked, her voice taut and low.

"Yes, Shepard," EDI answered with such succinctness that Shepard was grateful.

Shepard said nothing, merely turned around, aware of the silence, and strode into the elevator. She entered the Loft, looked around, but found that she had neither tears nor spleen to vent. This must be what an inert molecule felt like. It was, but it wasn't. It was something but it was also nothing.

"EDI, set secondary course for Illium. When we reach a comm buoy, patch me through to Liara. We're…there's going to be another disembarkation." The words were so calm, too calm.

"Course set, Commander."

Shepard closed her eyes, walked into her bathroom, and looked at herself in the mirror. It was like looking into a painting, not a reflection. The eyes held a deadened look, the face held no expression. She'd escaped and yet she hadn't.


	9. Vulnerable

Shepard picked up Alenko's photo from her desk, walking in wobbly fashion into her sleeping quarters. She could not even think about simple things, like locking the door. Even the glance at the Astro-Fizz packed fridge did not mean anything. The mission left such a bad taste in her mouth, she probably could not stomach the drink.

Armor and all she flopped down on the foot of the bed, elbows on her knees, one hand tangled in her curly hair, the other gripping the picture frame.

Her throat locked up as she tried calculating the weight of three hundred five thousand lives. It was as she told Hackett: first Williams, then the Ascension, now Aratoht. Even if her efforts aided in saving the galaxy…even if her efforts aided in saving the galaxy there was no way she could avoid a trial.

She was half a Spectre again, with the Systems Alliance after her blood to prevent a war with the batarians; batarians who were looking for an excuse to fight anyway.

She hadn't even thought about all those people as 'batarians' until this moment, and found she could not do so. Batarians were scum of the universe in her mind, they always had been. Any other decent member of the species, the ones who were usually trod underfoot…they were just civilians.

And now they were casualties. "Three hundred four thousand, nine hundred forty three…" Aratoht, the _Ascension_ , Williams, and the Council combined, all collateral damage, and those were only estimated losses. The real numbers were probably higher. She knew the words, knew the labels, knew she should not sit here mulling it over. Yet she could not escape the vain hope that maybe, _maybe_ remorse and that sickness in her stomach over what she had done—necessary or not—was a good thing.

It kept her from being Rogers. Odd how holding herself up for comparison with Rogers was so reassuring. Rogers would throw any number of lives away and call it a necessary expenditure. Shepard had to know that she felt _something,_ that those mounting numbers weren't just tally marks on a page somewhere. Well, she felt something and suspected it was just the tip of the iceberg. Some things were too big to wrap the mind around, and three hundred five thousand people in a single moment were a lot to process. It was as if her mind tried to process each life individually, rather than as part of a greater whole.

She tilted the photograph until she could see Alenko's face, then let it fall back again. She nearly let it slide out of her fingers as any hope she secretly cherished of somehow finding a way to fix things between them flickered and went out.

"What…" she whispered, sliding off the foot of the bed—and dragging some of the blanket with her—to sit on the floor, "what did I do to deserve all this?" Tears stung her eyes but did not fall. It was not a question she expected to have answered. For a moment, for a single split second she even wished the terrible burden onto someone else's shoulders, something she had never done before. For a single moment, she did not want to be Jalissa A. Shepard anymore. It was too hard.

She had once wanted a life empty except for service…and now she had it back, with a vengeance.

She had tried so hard, and while she had slowed the Reapers again…it wasn't enough to save anyone. It was just borrowed time. The battle had always felt futile, but she kept that thought down where it could only whisper to her in the quiet silence of the middle of her sleep shift.

Now it felt absolutely futile. Even if the Reapers were stopped, she would either be a dead hero, or a living bone of contention, a monster—to quote the media, with that al-Jilani woman at the head of the line. 'Decent human beings' didn't rack up that kind of body count; and people were not known for rationality; civilians were not known for understanding military decisions.

She had been damned from the beginning: from the moment she set foot on Elysium's soil.

They were not thoughts she could share with anyone and knowing there was no one she could say anything to made her grit her teeth against a scream, made the burden seem all the heavier. She could not say it, she could not write it down; it all had to stay behind her teeth.

"I wish," she addressed the photograph, tilting it so she could see it again. "I wish you were here." Of course, such a wish required the suspension of disbelief. She made the wish with the fallacy that this would be like the aftermath of the _Destiny Ascension_.

She couldn't _say_ any of what she was feeling, but it would be something to have someone to grip her hand and let her grip back; it would be something to have someone to put an arm around her shoulders; it would be something to have someone who could wrap strong arms around her; it would be something to, for a couple of seconds, not have to be the strong one.

The thought brought the tears back to her eyes. "EDI, lock me in."

The AI must have been watching, because the display did not appear, though the door locked automatically. She even had the suspicion that the AI was 'covering her ears' and 'looking the other way' to afford her a little privacy.

Shepard let out a single dry sob, the one which she had repressed so dutifully for what felt like a long time. Clasping her hands before her face as best she could with the photograph in hand she put her elbows on her knees, the plates slipping a little. She had rarely been so glad that her quarters were a private suite. Her armor had never felt so ineffective at protecting her.


	10. Fallout

Shepard looked like a cardboard cutout. There didn't seem to be any 'life' in her, just electricity, cogs and wheels. Hackett had seen that deadened look in soldiers before; events beyond their control—events that got out of control before they could be contained—burned them out, left them like empty power cells. Sometimes the aftermath wore off enough for them to resume some modicum of a normal life…sometimes it didn't.

That deadened look told him all he needed to know: Shepard was not merely at the Bahak system when things spiraled out of control. She actually authorized whatever destroyed the relay. The single broadcast, beamed out of the system a moment before it went dark, in which Shepard identified herself and issued a warning of imminent danger was real.

Funny though, that Shepard should identify herself. It was faster just to give the warning.

" _Admiral_."

"Shepard. You look like hell."

" _I probably do, sir_."

"How do you…feel?" It was an awkward question, but anyone confronted with that blank thousand-yard stare and inexpressive features would instinctively ask.

" _No more apocalyptic visions, if that's what you mean_."

Hackett regarded Shepard intently. He wanted to do this debriefing in person, but had been assured—he assumed by her XO—that this was not possible. He thought, at first, this meant Shepard was grievously injured, but apparently it meant she wanted to be out of reach. So they were doing this over an FTL channel. "I wanted to do this in person, since you went out there as a favor to me."

" _I'm sorry, Admiral. I was…looking after my crew_."

Which meant she really was planning to let him bring her back, but she did not want her crew penalized as being accessories to whatever happened out there.

"Shepard, I sent you out there to rescue Dr. Kenson. I have reports here of a mass relay exploding, an entire batarian system is gone, a dataclip that tells the news you were there, and a bunch of dead scientists. What the hell happened?"

Shepard took a deep breath. " _That's a lot of intel. The dataclip isn't mine._ "

"You identified yourself," Hackett softened his tone a little.

" _I said 'it isn't mine' not 'I wasn't there'._ " She did not elaborate.

"The point is, I sent you in there to break Amanda Kenson out of prison and now I've got _this_ ," he waved to indicate the desk she couldn't see.

Shepard took another deep breath. " _And I executed that part of the mission flawlessly. I also confirmed Dr. Kenson's proof that the Reapers were coming. Destroying the relay was the only way to stop them from marching in our back door._ "

But her tone lacked the usual emphasis when she discussed the Reapers. The conviction was there, the certainty was there…but the fire was gone.

" _Kenson and her team were Indoctrinated. They kept me sedated for the better part of two days. I started the asteroid's propulsion engines with less than an hour to go. I stopped the Reapers with literally minutes to spare. I tried…_ " her voice caught, forcing her to take a moment to recollect herself. " _I tried to warn the colony…but ran out of time._ "

A shadow of emotion crossed her face, an emotion too complex for words that somehow exacerbated that deadened look. It was the look of a soldier who knew there were no 'good' or 'right' choices to be made, but had been made to choose anyway.

He wanted to tell her that 'at least you tried' but knew better. There was no comfort in the words. They would only sting. Shepard was trained to respond and contain extreme situations. For her 'try' meant 'succeed.' For an N7 there was no 'try.' There was only 'success' or 'failure.' The former got a pat on the head. The latter usually meant a flag draped coffin.

Those were the distinctions drawn by Shepard's kind of soldier.

" _I'll send you my report_."

"Do." Hackett watched her fumble with something. A moment later, his inbox indicated reception of the file. "I'm not going to lie to you, Commander, the bartarians are going to want blood and there's just enough evidence for a witch hunt. And we don't want a war with the batarians; not with the Reapers on the galaxy's edge."

Nothing. She just blinked at him. He'd expected some sign of life at the indicated of his being 'fully on board about the Reapers.' Inwardly, he prayed that this was just shock, not a permanent thing. Hoped it was like the feedback after a flashbang: it lasted a little while, then the effects wore off and allowed the victim to function again.

He suspected there was a dimension few others would read: her colony, her life had been destroyed by batarians. Now she was arguably guilty of the exact same thing, only on a massive scale.

She pursed her lips and he could almost hear what she would have told him under more normal circumstances: 'I did what I could.'

"If it were up to me, Shepard, I'd give you a damn medal. Unfortunately, not everyone will see it that way."

" _I understand._ "

"Evidence against you is shoddy at best but, at some point, you'll have to come back to Earth and face the music. I can't stop it, but I can, and will, make them fight for it."

" _When and where do you want to take me into custody?_ " The question surprised him; it must have shown because she added, " _I'm ready_."

"…glad to see working with Cerberus hasn't altered your sense of honor."

Her mouth pursed again: this had nothing to do with honor. It was simply a lack of options. There was nothing more she could do, so remaining an at-large renegade was no longer necessary.

Hackett shook his head. "I'll get to work on bringing you in."

" _Yes, sir. Is there anything else?_ "

He wanted to say something bolstering, but there was nothing to say. "I'll be in touch."

-J-

Author's Note: Just to be clear, Harbinger tweaked Shepard's last transmission to include an identifier. No chance of her avoiding the fallout that way.


	11. Good

Garrus had, so far, refused Shepard's disembarkation orders. He blamed it on the fact that he was a very poor turian but a very good friend.

Shepard had explained, in a way that made her seem like a puppet on strings, what happened in the Bahak system. It was lucky that those she explained things to believed her about the Reapers. After that, she'd taken them to Illium, put the remainder of her crew into Liara's care—exempting himself, Tali, Joker, and Dr. Chakwas—then taken Tali to the Flotilla.

She was still sick, but much improved. She hadn't liked leaving but finally gave in to his argument that she couldn't do anything for Shepard and there was no point in staying. She'd argued _he_ was still here, but his counterargument that he wouldn't be when Shepard turned herself in won out.

He knew he wouldn't, but he wouldn't leave willingly. Shepard probably knew that, otherwise she'd have evicted him on Illium with the first wave. Or maybe she just liked the silent company.

Dr. Chakwas worried—Shepard was probably having uncontrolled nightmares.

Joker wanted to help but didn't know how.

Garrus thought he knew what might do the trick, but he wasn't sure how to go about it.

Shepard had, through long practice and necessity, learned how to bottle up her problems, to put aside what she _felt_ in order to be free to act.Before now she had always been able to vent off the bottled-up stuff at a time and place of her choosing, in a fashion that best benefitted her.

She couldn't do it now, or she would have. Tali's first attempts to get Shepard to 'talk about it' failed, almost left the quarian in tears—though he thought that the tears were of frustration at not getting anywhere.

He knew, though, what Shepard needed. It was…well, not _common_ among turians but common enough for him to know how to deal with it.

Shepard needed to break, but apparently couldn't do it on her own.

She needed help breaking, and if talking didn't do it, there was only one other alternative.

Someone—in this case he—would have to beat her without mercy until she _could_ break down. He didn't relish the prospect. He was confident in his hand-to-hand skills, but all the same he did not want to be the one doling out wall-to-wall counseling.

Want in one hand, need in the other, and he knew which one was more necessary. He'd have to put aside sympathy in order to cater to necessity. It was a good thing he'd waited until the last of the crew who could be made to disembark had done so.

She came when he asked her to come, meeting him in the cargo bay.

"Yes?" she took him in, not wearing armor but plainclothes. He didn't like not wearing his armor and noticed that she did not seem to like being without hers. It was the first time since Aratoht he'd seen her without it, and the only reason she _was_ without it was because he'd had EDI call Shepard down here as soon as Shepard climbed out of the shower.

He'd said it was 'important.' The AI probably embellished the necessity for Shepard to come to the cargo bay.

"We need to talk." He walked up to her, put an arm around her shoulders. She shifted, as if she meant to shrug him off, but she didn't complete the gesture.

"About what?"

He took a moment to steel himself. "You're in a bad way, Shepard."

"I'm fine. Is that what this is about? My ugly mug?" But there was no joking indication that he wasn't one to talk about being ugly.

"You need help, Shepard."

She shrugged out from under his friendly arm. "We're done here. You're getting off at Palaven."

Garrus found that there was no verbal way to open controlled hostilities. He stuck out an arm to impede her progress.

She stepped around it.

He moved to block her path of travel.

She sidestepped, and again, and finally pursed her lips in irritation.

She staggered when he reached out and _shoved_ her back.

She took a deep, calming breath. "I know what you're trying to do, Garrus."

"Do you?"

"And it isn't necessary."

"I think it is."

"I don't."

Garrus wanted to close his eyes, but he didn't as he backhanded Shepard, full in the face.

She staggered back, a little surprised at the blow. Anger flashed in her eyes. That was good, the first cracks in that duracrete containment shell she'd shoved everything she was bottling up into. She seemed to remind herself what he was doing, reminded herself that she was _not_ going to waste time playing along.

She made to dart past him; he blocked her.

She tried to loop him; he stuck out a leg over which she stumbled.

By now the annoyance had built up into irritability. At the very least, the spark came back into her eyes and stayed there. That was good. The hard part was coming up, though. He didn't relish the prospect to begin with, and disliked it more than ever. Shepard didn't balk at fighting anyone when goaded into it.

He wished Thane was here. Thane would understand the necessity and probably be a better candidate for administering this kind of tough love. That was what Shepard needed most: someone she could fight tooth and nail and not overcome, an implacable force she could beat herself to pulp against without gaining an inch.

"Garrus, I'm not joking. Get out of my way."

"Or what?" He was here, once again in her way, though this time he grabbed her arm, spun her around and gave her a hearty push back from the cargo bay doors, negating all the ground she'd gained during previous scuffles.

He paid her a mental apology: turian carapace was tough on human skin.

He immediately disregarded that apology: this was for her own good.


	12. Break

The blow to her face made Shepard's senses reel. She didn't feel any one area of discomfort by this point—though if she had to think about it, the kidney shot was probably the worst one. It was all a diffuse haze of _pain_ that seemed to penetrate to her very _cells_.

And for every blow _she_ landed, she rubbed her knuckles or elbow against Garrus' carapace. It might not be 'natural armor' but it was rough; rough enough to make her wonder how turians and 'soft' species ever…

Another blow to the face broke off her vague curiosity about cross-species relations. She hadn't taken a beating this bad since the days when Iron Mike Yamada, in all his martial supremacy, ruled his green recruits with a duarasteel fist and kept them under his mild-mannered steel-toed boot.

She blocked Garrus' next blow, took one to the chest, almost under her breastbone. It knocked the wind out of her, and the next instance she found herself on the floor, unsure of what kind of strike Garrus had used but completely convinced of its effectiveness.

He'd put her on the floor. Things weren't going well.

Dodging him hadn't worked. Ducking around him hadn't worked. Irritation and frustration both slowly receded, exposing the blankness of soul that had persisted since Aratoht.

Punches didn't seem to faze him, and by this point she was hitting him as hard as she could. He was never in range when she tried to kick at him; turian speed and a nimbleness she hadn't expected put him out of reach before she could do more than plant her anchor foot and take the weight off her kicking foot.

He had a way of positioning his arm (or, on occasion, turning his head) as she struck out open-palmed that ended with her skin sliding the wrong way against his carapace. By now her right hand had two or three patches that seeped blood.

He hadn't been lying when he said he was good at hand-to-hand. She simply hadn't appreciated what that meant in comparison with how an N was trained. She had not expected unrivalled superiority (in fact, she tried to avoid fistfights where possible), but she had not expected him to be so…effective.

She took another blow to the face which sent her back to the ground. It was harder to get up this time. Her arms shook as she put her weight on them, the muscles in her midriff began to protest. Her head ached, ringing like a bell, her senses rattled.

As soon as she was up, he caught her in a flurry of blows. For every one she managed to block, another landed elsewhere—and Garrus was not holding back in how hard he applied the blows, either.

She was on the ground again, muscles shaking. There was something happening in her mind—or maybe in her psyche—a kind of tremor like an ocean receding before a tsunami struck.

She got up again, but this time he let her have a moment to get her footing, to assemble some sort of balance before he put her back on the ground again. It was so frustrating, to be allowed to get up and then be put down as if it were nothing at all…

Down.

She got up.

She was back on the floor. The metal was cold beneath her cheek, soothing even. She found her throat constricting, her whole body trembling. She tried to get up, managed to get to her elbows before a turian foot descended, putting her flat on the floor. She shouted—it might have been 'get off' but it might have been more profane—but it did her no good.

The kick that followed, a kick that stopped just short of breaking her ribs, did it.

She broke, flew apart in all directions.

She lost track of herself, didn't realize that the grating, anguished screams came from her own mouth, torn from her own throat, born of remorse, grief, and guilt. She couldn't understand that her inability to breathe properly came from wracking sobs that shook her from head to foot. She couldn't explain why she felt drenched in water, when it was, in fact, sweat and tears—tears that gushed from a reservoir that might seem to an outsider to be without bottom. It disgorged its accumulated contents freely, with abandon, venting as much of the unshed poison as possible in this one moment of weakness, brought on by physical exertion and a pain of body that echoed the pain within.

She could have spent hours or days in that suspended state of disconnection, where she was and yet was not, where she existed in a form that was all body and no soul or all soul and no body.

Slowly though, she seemed to coalesce. She couldn't stop the sobs, couldn't staunch the tears, couldn't still the tremors as grief tore itself loose. She didn't feel 'better', didn't feel 'peace' seeping into her being…but she felt human again, and that was something.

There was a hand, slowly rubbing her back, a large, three-fingered hand with talons that snagged every so often on the material of her shirt. The comforting gesture assured her that no hostility remained, that she could rise and go if she chose.

Or could.

It was recognition of not being alone that made her force herself into a sitting position.

Garrus, looking worried, sat beside her. His expression held apology for having hurt her, but for nothing else.

Shepard nodded, still unable to stop her own hysterics. Finally though, she scooted over to him with difficulty and let her forehead drop against his shoulder. It was, she recognized on some level, a very human reaction to want proximity of one's own kind—or those close to one—in times of great stress or adversity.

Garrus stiffened for a moment, then looped an arm around her, waiting in silence for the breakage to begin to heal.


	13. Adrift

" _Lieutenant James!"_ The scream that tore through James Vega's dreaming mind, waking him up, was completely his own invention. Shrill and grating, it was enough to make him shout himself.

Sweating and shivering, Vega tried to bring his breathing under control, tried to ignore the clammy-cold sensation clinging to his skin. His pillowcase was soaked with sweat. The rest of his sheets didn't feel much better. He swallowed, then got to his feet, lumbered to the bathroom and filled the glass he kept there with water. The liquid re-moisturized the tissues of his mouth, but did nothing to relieve the sick feeling that came with the dream.

Contrary to everything he'd ever heard, the nightmares had never lessened in intensity, though they had lessened in frequency until recently. Still, it seemed him, he thought as he washed his face in cold water, that the lack of frequency was more than made up for by strength when he did have them.

And now he was back to having them every few days.

He looked into the mirror at his dripping-wet face, found he didn't like the man looking back at him. That was nothing new and it had nothing to do with the dark circles under his eyes or the fact that he was in need of a haircut, or that he really needed a shave.

He'd made a call, and she'd died for it. It wasn't something he thought he could ever get square with. All the logic and justifications in the galaxy hadn't helped one iota. She'd died because of the call he made. Plain and simple.

He knew why the nightmare should come back _now_. The news had broken days ago: the formerly dead Commander Shepard had (supposedly) blown up a mass relay, wiping out the system it connected to and everyone in it. It was a sickening feeling to hear one's hero being accused of something like that. It was another to have everyone so certain she'd actually done it.

He couldn't just blindly believe it was all bogus…but he couldn't accept that there hadn't been _something_ , some circumstance or situation that might mitigate the fallout. Surely, _surely_ a soldier like that, an N7, wouldn't just go off the reservation. Blowing up mass relays? That wasn't something any terrorist group he'd ever heard of would even _think_ about doing. Mass relays held the galaxy together. Without them, every overarching entity, every system was off doing its own thing. Isolated. Alone.

There were lots of theories about how and why she'd done it; some were plausible, some totally implausible, some of them no doubt started by the Batarian Hegemony. _They_ were claiming the destruction of the Bahak relay was to cover up a crime. That was a bit of a stretch and he doubted anyone really believed it: there were easier ways to cover something up, and if it _was_ a cover-up, no self-respecting N7 would have let a transmission identifying them get out.

That was what puzzled him. He didn't know much about black ops, but it seemed to him that this was one that went sideways. So why had she confirmed her presence once the mission went south? It didn't make any sense.

There were lots of little things about the scenario that bothered him and, if they bothered him, the Alliance no doubt had the analysts going over them with fine-toothed combs. He hoped they did.

Still. Destroying a relay? That was a pretty heavy duty accusation. And there was no doubt that the relay _had_ been destroyed. How were you supposed to do something like that, anyway? Weren't they supposed to be indestructible?

He shook his head. As far as reputation-destroying scandals, this one wasn't so bad. No, that wasn't the way to put it. If his hero had to be destroyed—or, he corrected himself hopefully, the target of a character assassination—then at least it was for explosions and militant action. Not something stupid like 'who's the father?' or politician-esque corruption.

Weird that it should all break _after_ Adm. Hackett made a public address to Alliance Parliament that the Collector threat to human colonies was decidedly over. Details trickling to the masses were hazy at best, but he knew what they meant: they meant that the data he'd recovered on Fehl was utterly and absolutely worthless, leaving the sacrifice he made wholly and utterly pointless.

The data hadn't been worth their lives after all. He could have saved them and the galaxy wouldn't have been out of anything.

The thought hit him like a punch in the gut made him rinse his face again for something to do. Then again as the bile tried to rise. He felt hot and clammy.

No, he still didn't like the guy looking out of the mirror at him.

He shuffled back out of the bathroom, sat down on the edge of his bed, post-nightmare restlessness beginning to set in. Or maybe it was just restlessness in general. When he was awake, could keep his mind occupied, he was okay—more or less. But when he was off duty, when he had time to stop and let his mind drift…that was when he ran into problems.

The strongest tug came from the idea 'start walking and just keep walking.' No set destination. No set objective. Just walk until he couldn't walk any further. Not even literally walk. Just drift from place to place. Could you find what you were looking for if you weren't looking for anything in particular? Or if you didn't know what you we relooking for?

It wouldn't, he knew, help him deal with the guilt, the sickening sense of failure. Running away never helped. But neither had anything else. He'd tried almost everything else.

He felt so lost and didn't know how to get un-lost. Maybe part of him didn't want to. Maybe being found would be worse than being lost.

Vega swallowed hard, held up a hand and watched the tremors.


	14. Turn

" _My employer wants Subject Zero returned, now_ ," the agent said simply. " _It's time for her to contribute one hundred percent to the war effort. We trust you won't have any problems with this_?"

Rogers smiled, but not out of humor. "Of course not. I've been expecting your employer to want his property returned. We'll arrange the pickup once I'm out of Alliance Space—they don't like human trafficking, and that's what this will look like. I'll contact you again from Omega."

As much as she liked having Jack's powers at her disposal, the biotic was a little more broken or twisted than any other member of her crew. Too much so for Rogers' comfort, and it surprised her to admit this when she felt confident of being able to control Jack.

Control was the thing. But even now, she found that some things, controlled things, were simply not worth the effort put into containment measures. It was time to reevaluate the situation.

The reevaluation demanded change…and she would much rather be in Cerberus' employ than out of it. It was more interesting than her Corsair work.

The agent severed the call, leaving Rogers alone in the briefing room. She turned her omnitool's recording function off, storing the conversation under encryption and behind many walls. Rogers did not take chances: everyone had the potential to switch sides and if she found herself at odds with Cerberus, she would certainly not hesitate to throw them under the CRT car.

Be a hero.

She detested being a hero, but whatever it took to survive and keep her command. "VI monitoring protocols: reactivate. VI, please send Officer Browne to the communications suite at his earliest convenience." _At his earliest convenience_. Code-talk for 'get his ass up here right now.' "Also, prepare for FTL jump to the Omega Relay. We'll initiate travel as soon as I get back from my briefing."

For a program supposedly separate from the Alliance service branches, Rogers found this to be inaccurate. The Alliance was comprised of control freaks—one of the reason she had done so well under their thumb…but no more.

She knew very well there were no more promotions for her, part of the reason she'd been so please to assist in the making-public of Shepard's Cerberus ties. It was rather amusing to hear about Captain Sheffler tearing about the galaxy looking for a Cerberus mole with strong Alliance ties.

And of course he would hit on Shepard: disappointment did strange things to people.

But none of that mattered, now. She had other issues with which to contend.

Within minutes, d'Angelo Browne appeared, the charcoal grey of his uniform making his skin look a ghastly yellow. Not very imaginative of his parents, naming an albino 'd'Angelo', but parents were sometimes rather silly about naming their offspring. "Commander?"

"Did you do like I told you and make friends with little Jack?"

"Of course I did."

"Good. The time has come for her to be reassigned." She motioned him to follow her, which he did, right to the XO's quarters. From the base of a rather ordinary statue of smooth geometrical design, Rogers produced a small hypospray, which she examined thoughtfully. "Bioengineered to be unique to her, it'll put her under until we can make the drop."

"To where is she being reassigned?"

"Little children have to go home eventually. Or so it should be, don't you agree?" Rogers tossed him the sedative, watched as d'Angelo negligently closed his hand around it.

"To Cerberus."

"I'm afraid so."

"Don't lie," d'Angelo's voice took on a cold quality, tactfully reminding Rogers with whom she was dealing. "I can tell with you, Eva. I can always tell."

And he could, too. Rogers narrowed her eyes, suppressing the irritation. That was a drawback of working with d'Angelo: he found people's tells, learned how to identify when they lied…or, sometimes, when they were not being _quite_ truthful. "All right, I'm not afraid so. So much for being sympathetically tactful."

"You know what they'll do to her. She won't come out of that any the better."

A deep unease twinged. "If you want to keep her, I suppose I could arrange it. But think of the thousands who will die for want of whatever it is Cerberus needs from her. It's your choice." She held d'Angelo's eyes until he looked away. He swallowed hard, pursed his lips, an attitude of acquiescence to the necessity. "Now. I said prep the girl for transport _._ Cerberus wants her—or her brainpan. Frankly, I'll be glad to have the walking ruin off my ship. She's more trouble than she's worth. If I have to hold her hand any longer…" All d'Angelo's coddling and coaxing, trying to make her 'the better person' so as to make her more controllable…it was really quite insufferable.

"You made it clear _I_ was to do the hand-holding."

So, he _had_ used that path to ingratiate himself with Jack. Well, whatever worked, though Rogers was a bit surprised. She would not have guessed _that_ old tactic would work on Jack. Or maybe it was d'Angelo's idealism and conviction that he was out saving the galaxy, yet he himself professed knowing he couldn't do it alone or to his own satisfaction. Who knew what appealed to girls like Jack? "I don't care what you were holding, d'Angelo, as long as you have her trust."

"She's in my care, Eva."

"Yes, and you've done a marvelous job with her. But you're not a fool, 'd'Angelo." Rogers made her voice as persuasive as she could. This was all normal for d'Angelo: it was his way of testing whether their goals were still compatible. "She's unstable, and it worries you. You've stopped her little tantrums from going critical twice already, but can you do it again? _Dope_ her, _secure_ her, and prepare for FTL jump. Now."

"Of course. We must all bow to the necessity," he said quietly, almost resignedly.

"Precisely. I'm glad we still find our goals compatible."


	15. Mercy

D'Angelo Browne studied Eva Rogers, taking in the little cues she gave. Of all the people he knew, she gave clues only when her emotional gauge moved outside of a certain zone—it was not there, yet. She was not unreadable, but she was not an open book or a partially obscured page, either. "Of course. We must all bow to the necessity," he said quietly, almost resignedly.

"Precisely. I'm glad we still find our goals compatible."

But they weren't. Not anymore. His hand tightened on the sedative as he saluted crisply, turned sharply, and strode out of her quarters. No, their goals were not compatible in this: Cerberus had had their time with Jack. So had he. And now, it was necessary that his time with her end so that Cerberus could not have a second turn.

It was not permissible.

He sighed as he walked. Rogers had finally grown overconfident, finally lumped him in with the rest of her zealots. But her zealots had never seen insurrection within the ranks. Perhaps today was the day when the ship found out how devoted, exactly, Rogers' people were.

Rogers did not intimidate him in the slightest: she was simply the most broken of broken people on this ship. The most twisted of the twisted.

D'Angelo's agile mind turned cartwheels as he made his way down to the very belly of the ship, a small space that was almost a bubble in the ship's design, surrounded on all sides by ship but still the lowest habitable point.

"Jack?" It was always wise to call her several times before actually entering her space. The attachment she had formed to him permitted lots of leeway, but he knew better than to startle her. It was only because of this attachment that he could countenance what he was about to do.

It was better this way, to put the poor girl out of Cerberus' reach forever. Then he would contend with Rogers. Take away Rogers and her team of mildly psychotic soldiers would fall apart; they wouldn't know what to do with themselves.

Then he could pressure Capt. Cameron—captain in name only—into docking at Arcturus and spilling the truth of the _Victoria's_ activities.

When Jack did not answer him the second time he called, he slipped down the stairs into her space, pushing aside the standard-issue blanket that separated her space from the stairwell.

She lay sound asleep on her side, one arm raised to cover her face, like a bird with her head beneath a wing. It was hard to tell to an unpracticed eye, but she was not wearing that ridiculous 'top' of hers. But he'd spent stretches of time admiring her ink, listening to the gritty stories it represented, and noticed.

It probably surprised Jack when she got more out of the snuggling and talking than she did out of the sex.

That was simply how she loosened her tongue—but he'd noticed that changing. Which was good: it meant she trusted him enough not to need obvious gratification prior to the revelation or discussion of personal matters.

He'd handled the conditions of the first time with extreme care. Certainly not at her first, second, or even third suggestion. Not until she was well and truly confused by him. Confused enough to start asking questions, to have mental involvement.

D'Angelo shook himself. Emotional involvement: some people would argue it made it difficult to do what was necessary. He found it made things easier: it was easier to do the hard things when you knew it was the best thing to do.

Cerberus would never give up on re-acquiring Jack. That was why she was here, with Rogers. Rogers would sell her out in a second—had sold her out already—and Jack could only run so long on her own before Cerberus caught up. She lacked subtlety.

"Jack." He perched beside her, tracing circles on the back of her hand until she took a deep breath, lowered her arm so she could see him. He'd perfected the art of waking her up without startling her.

"Mmm…hey." She blinked several times.

D'Angelo leaned over, kissed her tenderly. It had to be this way. It was for the best. "I love you," he said, caressing her cheek.

"Oh yeah?"

The wicked gleam had just come into her eyes when it vanished entirely, d'Angelo's hands appearing over mouth, nose, and throat. "You'll never forgive me for this, but that's all right," he said quietly, stifling her breath, even as she struggled. "But _she_ plans to send you back. To them." The struggle increased: there were no questions as to who 'she' and 'them' were. "I'm not going to let that happen. I'm putting you out of their reach. Forever."

He had to watch this, couldn't close his eyes and wait for the struggle to stop. It wouldn't be right; anyone trying to save the galaxy had to look into the face of the destruction he left. Otherwise it meant nothing. Every sacrifice must have value. Must be recognized.

It was where he and Cerberus so often disagreed.

Jack suddenly recovered from her shock, from being unable to breath. D'Angelo found himself hurtling backwards, thrown by a concentrated biotic blast. He hit the bulkhead, dazedly heard Jack retrieve her amp then charge up the stairs.

Seconds later, he heard a shriek of immeasurable pain, then shouts and footsteps.

Rogers burst down, her eyes blazing, biotics flaring.

D'Angelo got to his feet.

So, Jack had escaped, probably via escape pods: he'd caught her in those several times previously. The only place she could get was Arcturus. It was the only place she could be sure of not being apprehended by Rogers, and fear of Cerberus outweighed fear of the Alliance.

"I thought we were saving the galaxy," Rogers snarled, failing to present her usual calm countenance.

He wasn't surprised when Rogers shot him—non-fatal, so he would suffer for the inconvenience he'd caused her.


	16. Assess

Jack had never been as terrified in her life as in the moment d'Angelo clamped one hand over her mouth and nose, and the other around her throat, grip inexorably cutting off her air. She should have known: you couldn't trust _anyone_ , and she'd been so stupid…so horribly, unforgivably stupid.

Her biotics flared, but the inability to breathe made things…difficult. It was hard to think about biotics when one couldn't breathe…

"You'll never forgive me for this, but that's all right," d'Angelo said quietly, those pale pink eyes focused on her face. "But _she_ plans to send you back. To them."

Jack's inability to breath became a secondary concern. She understood what d'Angelo was saying, even if she didn't understand what he was doing.

'Rogers plans to send you back to _Cerberus_.'

"I'm not going to let that happen. I'm putting you out of their reach. Forever."

Some twisted sense of 'saving' someone! Jack lashed out blindly, with all the force she could muster.

The suffocating hands vanished as she bounced out of bed, heedless of being only half-dressed. It didn't matter—all that mattered was getting off this ship. Right now. She wasn't sure where she was, as she plugged in her amp, but it didn't matter.

Anywhere was better than here.

Part of her screamed in misery as she charged up the stairs. She'd trusted d'Angelo as she'd trusted no one else…and look where that had gotten her. Nearly suffocated. He'd played her like a fiddle—it was just as she thought: no one did something for nothing. No one did anything without some long-term aim.

She wasn't sure what d'Angelo's long-term aim was, but she knew Rogers would kill him if she hadn't: Rogers didn't take treachery well.

Jack wasn't sure if she wanted to come face-to-face with Rogers or not. Deep, deep down, the woman running the SSV Victoria scared her a little. She wouldn't admit it, not even to herself, but Rogers was the worst kind of unstable.

Rogers made Jack herself seem rock solid.

Jack burst onto the crew deck, where the nearest bank of escape pods reposed. It was empty except for Trey and Tonya. Definitely candidates for twincest, those two.

"Jack?" Tonya's eyes widened, surprised by Jack's sudden appearance and apparent distress.

Jack reached forward—they'd stop her if they could. This was just like escaping Teltin, escaping Purgatory. Biotic energy swirled around her, the twins flaring up in reaction.

They were strong when they were together, free to act in tandem. Jack knew that, and knew that they could slow her down long enough for others to come. She'd seen enough while working for Rogers: as soon as Rogers arrived, the fight for freedom was over.

Rogers plus the twins meant being back in a Cerberus facility.

And she'd never get out again.

With a savage roar, she sent every ounce of power she could muster into a _push_ , the startled twins crashing into a bulkhead, one against the other. A loud crunch sounded as Tonya slammed into Trey, pinning him between herself and the bulkhead. Tonya cried out, clearly recognizing the sound as that of bones breaking.

From where she was, Jack could see that the damage was not life-threatening…but when she threw the twins across the room, again with Trey on the bottom, the landing—between the wall and the floor—the impact snapped Trey's neck. Something had to give, and between a biotic wave and a steady wall, human bones didn't have a chance.

Jack pulled back the panel accessing the evacuation pods, wrenched the pod open, threw herself in and dragged the door closed. It sealed and after a moment of shaky-handed work at the launch panel, the pod detached from the ship, spinning, falling, towards some station.

Jack sat on the floor, knees drawn up to her chest, trying to think clearly. The rage vanished with the freedom from immediate danger, leaving that cold, scared little girl feeling in its wake. She shivered, head to foot, swallowed hard.

Even the attempts to cuss herself back into a fighting set of mind failed. She knew she was in trouble, and was about to land herself in the middle of some Alliance station. How was she supposed to get out of _that_?

She still had her amp…but she had the disadvantage of not knowing where she could secure a shuttle capable of making a mass relay jump. And there were far more soldiers here than guards on the Purgatory. They could lock her down, pen her up…and then what?

She shuddered, wishing the hot, consuming anger would come back.

She didn't like the feelings of grief and loss that tried to invade her mind; they were worse than the scared little girl feeling.

She felt it when the Alliance 'caught' her pod, began reeling her in. Rogers had to know she was gone. _Could_ Rogers sweet talk her way out of trouble? Could Rogers—even worse—convince the Alliance that she, Jack, was the dangerous one?

She was, of course, but what if Rogers' story, whatever it was, was enough to get her sent _back_? Going back to Rogers would be going directly to Cerberus…

No one would take the word of a cryo-con over the word of an Alliance officer— _especially_ on an Alliance installation.

As she calculated this, tried to think of something she could do, some way out, a small part of her came to a grim conclusion.

D'Angelo really had tried to save her. Given his way, she wouldn't be caught between the Alliance and Cerberus.

It didn't mean she would have bellied up and let him kill her…but, strangely, she saw where he'd come from.

That made her feel more unsettled, because she knew he hadn't wanted to do it. It had been on his face, in his words.

She hated him for it.

Or she told herself she did, as the pod hit the floor of the hangar with a jarring thump.


	17. Collapse

It was the scream that brought Rogers running out of her quarters, the excited, terrified babble that led her to the bank of escape pods nearest to Jack's hidey-hole. Anger burned in her chest as she realized something had gone terribly wrong.

Tonya knelt at the far end of the room, her twin brother cradled in her arms. She sobbed so hard it shook them both, broken babbled pleas for Trey to talk to her pouring forth like the tears.

Rogers bit the inside of her lip: Trey was clearly dead. The secondary ramifications were immediately apparent: Tonya was now virtually useless. It was something of which she'd been aware since first meeting the twins. They were intensely powerful together, but separate them and they were noticeably untalented. Their codependence was their strength and their weakness.

"VI: Lock down this ship. We are in a state of emergency. Have Security Officer Morgan wait for me at the briefing room. Open channels to Arcturus: we are in the middle of a crisis, and will report in as soon as the situation is fully contained."

" _Orders relayed._ "

"Are all evacuation pods accounted for?" She already knew the answer, and it made her angry. _How_ could this have happened?!

" _There has been one jettison, but the rest of the evacuation measures are still in their cradles._ "

Damn. "Tell Arcturus they may be receiving a fugitive directly associated with my Corsair activity. She is an extremely dangerous biotic." For a moment Rogers toyed with trying the killswitch in Jack's favorite amp—it might still be in range—but decided against it.

Let Jack show up on Arcturus raging and snarling: with any luck she'd end up very dead. That would solve a lot of problems.

Setting her mouth in a thin line, Rogers strode to her locker, grabbed her pistol, and headed down to Jack's living space.

She found d'Angelo on the floor, dazed, clearly the victim of a biotic attack. She knew what had happened as soon as d'Angelo met her eyes, the way he lifted his chin.

His entire attitude was one of sheer defiance.

She was not controlling her biotics as rigidly as she ought, but found herself unable to stop the flare of power in the air around her. He…let the girl go? He _let the girl go_?! He couldn't! He wasn't allowed! He was hers, _her_ creature! As long as they were 'saving the galaxy' he was supposed to be on _her_ side! He saw the brutal necessities as clearly as she did…so why…

…emotional involvement. That shattered little bitch had somehow suborned one of the coldest pragmatists she, Rogers, had ever met! It was enough to make her want to twist d'Angelo into a pretzel and throw him out the airlock!

The horrible thing was that he clearly knew what he'd done. It showed as he got to his feet, shaking off the impact with the wall and straightening his clothes.

"I thought we were saving the galaxy," Rogers snarled. Had she ever been this angry? _Ever_? Her self-control continued fraying as she looked at this traitor. There was no room for treachery on this ship! Damn him! He'd potentially ruined _everything_!

As long as Capt. Cameron enjoyed success (and safety), he'd let Rogers run his ship. Cameron's spine was one of toothpaste; if he thought for one minute that Rogers had pulled him in over his head…

…she had, of course, but he didn't know that. She'd taken pains for him not to know that.

"So did I."

Rogers, looking as deranged as she actually was, raised her pistol, shooting him directly below his breastbone. She would contend with d'Angelo later, if he didn't bleed out. Right now, she had damage control to run.

He showed no surprise when she shot him—hopefully he would suffer for the inconvenience he'd caused her.

Heading back to the crew deck, Rogers passed Sato and Dr. Kramer, who'd apparently heard the gunshot and followed the sound.

"What happened?" Sato asked, dark eyes wide.

Rogers quelled her biotic field. "We've had trouble; I'm trying to rectify it." With that, she continued towards the crew deck.

Cameron was there, obviously having just been called out of bed.

Of course, emergency protocols demanded the Captain's presence for something like this. The first thing he would do was have the ship's VI tell him where she, Rogers, was. The second thing would be for him to _find_ Rogers to demand an explanation.

The _Victoria_ had not seen this level of alert since Cameron had assumed command with Rogers as his second.

Trust d'Angelo to stack the dominoes like this! Scheming bastard!

"Rogers! What the hell is going on?!" Cameron demanded.

"There's been a little trouble with Browne and Jack. I'm dealing with it now."

"I thought you had her under control!"

Panic. The fool was panicking. Rogers gritted her teeth. "The situation aboard ship has been _contained_ , Captain. I'm about to report to Arcturus, who will take our psychotic biotic into custody. Or shoot her if she refuses to come sweetly."

"You call that 'contained'?! How did this happen?"

Rogers closed her eyes. "I gave Browne orders, preparatory to having Jack removed from your ship. He…felt they were not ethical."

"Your pick? One of _your_ _picks_ felt your orders weren't _ethical_? They're zealots!" Cameron shouted. "They _don't_ disobey your orders! _Ever_! So what was so wrong with this one?!"

"I suppose he found me the greater of two evils." This was getting tiresome. It was fortunate that, by now, the crew were her creatures to the last man. Except Cameron.

And d'Angelo but he scarcely mattered, now.

"Who was the other evil…?" Cameron asked quietly, disquiet and horror growing in his eyes as he realized what kind of devil had run his ship since she joined his crew. He immediately _knew_ that he was in so far over his head he might never come out.

Rogers exhaled sharply, her course of action clear. "Cerberus."


	18. Pawn

Lt. Sato came hurrying down the steps with Dr. Kramer in tow. "Browne!"

D'Angelo Browne sat on the floor, leaning against the bulkhead. Bloodstains on the floor indicated he'd spent time lying there before getting up. His clothes were saturated with blood, and while he was obviously in pain, he was not kicking and screaming with it.

He'd always had admirable mental fortitude.

"Just a painkiller, Doctor," he said quietly, before turning his gaze to Sato. "Things have gone very badly, Miss Sato."

Sato knelt by his side, touched his neck with the back of her hand. He was cold, clammy—probably shock.

"I can fix this," Dr. Kramer said simply, setting down his so-called black bag.

"No. You can't. Just a painkiller, please, or I refuse all medical assistance."

Sato opened her mouth. "Wh-what's going on here? How did Jack…"

D'Angelo gave a wry laugh, followed by a wince—and the application of painkillers by Dr. Kramer. "Wasn't Jack, Miss Sato."

Sato opened her mouth. "Commander Rogers? She'd never…"

"Not unless someone interrupted her plans. How's Tonya? I heard her screaming."

"Trey's dead. Jack flipped out. Finally." Sato set her teeth. She had not liked Jack's presence on the ship.

"Of course she did: Rogers was sending her back to Cerberus," d'Angelo shivered, no longer noticing Dr. Kramer and his surreptitious attempts to treat the gunshot.

Sato suddenly understood several things, among them that whatever Rogers had shot d'Angelo with, it was meant to bring down someone like Jack in one shot. "It's not standard ammunition, Doctor."

Dr. Kramer's 'hmph' indicated he already knew this.

"I wasn't going to let her be a lab rat twice. I tried to…" d'Angelo's words slowed, then stopped, his pink eyes looking at something past Sato's shoulder. She glanced at Dr. Kramer who, lips pursed, shook his head slowly. With that, he picked up his bag and strode up the stairs.

Sato watched him go. Dr. Kramer had been with Rogers a long time. Like most of the crew, he owed Rogers his current career. Not many people wanted a physician with several counts of malpractice against him.

If it was malpractice. No, if d'Angelo had betrayed Rogers, Dr. Kramer would wait until Rogers gave the word for treatment.

D'Angelo must have known that when he said 'painkillers only.'

Sato's brow furrowed as she knelt there, caught between staying with her crewmate and following Dr. Kramer's lead. A cold discomfort crept into her stomach: this was not a conversation she wanted to have! It…shook the foundations of the world as she understood it.

"Is he gone?" d'Angelo asked softly, lucidity coming back to his clouding eyes.

"Yes." Sato bit her lip. It had never occurred to her what might happen if someone in the crew actually turned on Rogers. Why should they? Why would they want to? "D'Angelo… _why_? She's not even one of us…" She'd never liked Jack: the biotic was a walking mistake. The best thing for everyone would have been to put her down like a rabid varren.

-J-

"Perhaps not…but you are. And it is my belief that…you're next to be donated to Rogers' cause…or Cerberus', though I imagine they're about the same right now. Whether you volunteer or not." It was a blatant lie, but d'Angelo found it justified. He had failed in both his plans, so he needed to recalculate…and his time was limited. His feet were so cold…

"Me?!" Sato's eyes grew wide, disbelieving.

It wasn't hard to conjure a wry chuckle. "You're a technological genius, Miss Sato. Don't you think you could be some sort of template for an army of technological geniuses?"

"I could t-train them, of course…"

"Takes too long."

"D'Angelo? D'Angelo!" she shook him, shook him out of his apparent slip out of consciousness.

"Sato, I couldn't save Jack…but you're here, and _she_ isn't." Sato didn't need telling who 'she' was. "I've never lied to you before…why should I start now?" He was telling all sorts of lies today, but his longstanding practice of unvarnished truthfulness worked for him now.

Now, when it counted most.

"Wh-what do I need to do?" Everyone could be made to cave in when faced with the right appeal to self-preservation. Especially when everyone on this ship knew Rogers was crazy—but a crazy woman who took care of her staff. An opportunist guards her resources…

… _until_ it becomes more beneficial to parcel them off and sell them out. Sato knew it, and d'Angelo knew she knew it.

"Hack Rogers' omnitool. Find out where she keeps the records…of her Cerberus conversations. Her insurance policy."

Sato worked in fevered silence for a few minutes—more minutes than d'Angelo would have liked. He feared he would die before she found them. He could feel the press of death creeping up on him. "When you have them, you have to…"

"I have them…" Sato played the last logged message, biting her lip.

"That's good. I need to…talk to Arcturus first. Record that. Then play that message. Then play the recording and the message both until someone does something. They need to know…and you need to…to get out. Don't wait for me to pass. I'm…fine…"

"Okay…I hacked into their main communications…whenever you're ready." Sato cued the transmission.

D'Angelo took a deep breath, pulling together the words he wanted to use. They had to be right…they were his last.

They had to be right. If they weren't…if they weren't, Rogers could counter them, paint him as the enemy, the traitor.

Who was he? Where was he? They needed to know. "This is d'Angelo Browne…SSV Victoria." Why was he calling? "This…is a Cerberus vessel…under the command of Commander Eva Rogers." And what was most important? _The_ most important thing? "The girl you have…must be kept…safe." He nodded at Sato to run the playback, listened to the poisonous, unforgivable treachery.

He didn't feel Sato touch his ankle when the playback ceased and she cued the message to repeat itself.

He didn't hear her tell him goodbye.


	19. Caught

Jack watched from her escape pod as what looked like half of Arcturus station crowded into the hallway outside the hangar. Her biotics flared, giving fair warning: that was why none of the pansies had come into the hangar yet. Flaring biotics were an unknown.

They'd better be scared. Their being scared made her feel stronger, more in control.

A door opened, and one soldier eased in warily, said something to someone in the hall behind him, shook his head resignedly, and continued edging into the room.

"Excuse me? You're making the security guys nervous."

This surprised her a little. It sounded…geeky. Of _course_ she was making them nervous! She was an out of control biotic, an all-powerful bitch…

…only part of her registered that this was only temporary. The scared little girl rattling around inside her was a decidedly strong presence.

"Do you mind? Can we talk?"

"There's nothing to talk about! I want out of here, soldier-boy, and you'd better make it happen!"

"That's not the way this is going to work," the easy tone of uncomfortable placation. He eased forward, taking on details past blue uniform and dark hair.

She didn't want him close. His placating tone made her mad. " _Make_ it work!" Deep down, she knew this was not going to work…but she didn't know what else to do. She'd run away from a crazy soldier into a nest of soldiers…and even Jack had a sense of when she was at a supreme disadvantage.

"Look," his voice firmed up, taking on mild irritation, "it's not _going_ to work, because half the security force is down here. I'm the one you want to talk to, _trust_ —"

Jack stood up, climbed out of the pod so she could perch on the hull—it had landed sideways, left her feeling like a rabbit in a hole. The word 'trust' was the wrong one to use. She sent off a warning shockwave, then gaped as the man moved quickly, diverting it with his own biotics. He shook out his hand, as if the deflection had stung.

The next thing he knew, Jack had him under a barrage—she thought she heard him tell someone, probably through his radio, that he had this under control.

It certainly looked that way. He might have dropped to one knee, bent his head, but that simply made the amount of space he had to protect smaller. 'Turtling up' in a very literal way. From what she could see, he could stay turtled up like that as long as she chose to pound on him. She might be powerful, he might feel it, but she didn't have infinite reserves, and he wasn't expending as much energy as she was.

Finally, she stopped the barrage, sweating and beginning to feel dizzy. "I'm not going back there!" she shouted, somewhat irrationally, pointing behind her.

"No one's going anywhere, yet. You triggered a security lockdown."

Good. Good…that was….good.

Wasn't it?

"Can we talk now?" he raised his head cautiously, checking to see if she was going to start throwing biotic energy at her. "Sooner we get this sorted out, the sooner we can get you seen to: you're looking a little overdrawn."

"Mind your own damn business!" Something about his attitude, his words, grated against her, chafed against her mindset.

"I was, but then an apparently raging biotic showed up in an escape pod off a passing ship and I got tagged to help deal with it." No amusement, in face he sounded grimly irritated again.

Negotiators didn't _get_ irritated. This was…weird. Uncertain? Irritable? They'd probably tapped him because he was a biotic and could withstand another biotic's barrage. It made her feel a little small to come up against someone she hadn't been able to pummel. Then again, she didn't have the element of surprise, either.

"You're no negotiator."

"No, I'm not. Just the poor sap who got tagged with it."

Jack climbed out of the pod, still braced for action. Slowly, the soldier stood up, his barrier dying down to the merest hint of color around him. "Why aren't they in here?" She jerked her chin at the observation windows.

The soldier didn't look back. "Bad idea for them to come in. Distressed biotics make people nervous."

 _Distressed_? Who did he think she was? She jumped down off the pod, irritation and confusion jostling her in equal measure.

"And security guys don't like being nervous. Even the best make mistakes…and I think all concerned would like to avoid those."

"…what do you want?" she asked suspiciously. He was close enough that she could make out features. He had the classical look of a 'nice guy' and she immediately distrusted him. Even if he was a biotic. Even if he was being smart about this whole thing. The longer she stayed calm, the more she realized that she was in a more uncomfortable position than she was on Rogers' boat…

…no, that wasn't true. Wasn't it?

Her head hurt. She couldn't move forward, she couldn't move back…

"Hey, you crashed into us: why? _Victoria_ didn't register any emergency alerts."

Under the steady brown gaze, Jack's aggression wavered. She swallowed hard, glancing away. He was too calm about all this. "She was going to ship me back: I'm not going anywhere near those brain butchers…" She suddenly realized she'd said more than she meant to. Her biotics flared. She did not like the look that came into his eyes at the words 'brain butchers.' It wasn't a calculating look: it was the look of someone who had a fairly accurate guess about what she really meant. "I don't have to talk about this to you! You can't understand so don't try! I want out of here, right now!"

The words had too much of the scared little girl, and she knew it. Her choices were limited: play their games or let them shoot her. Neither option was very palatable.

"Oh," he said quietly, "I think I can."


	20. Reach

Alenko's mind worked at full throttle. 'Brain butchers,' There was only one entity associated with that title, that was spoken with that much scorn. They ran experiments, grotesque, unethical experiments, and the survivors were always walking wrecks…when there _were_ survivors.

Cerberus. They kept cropping up, their victims kept cropping up, and sometimes it was harder to deal with the live ones than the dead ones. It might explain _why_ this biotic was so strong. He wasn't sure how long he could have let her hammer at him, even with the space he had to protect minimized.

Shepard's face, pale but with red eyes and thin lips appeared before his mind's eye, her voice in his head too controlled to be naturally calm. _They found a survivor. From Mindoir. Poor kid…they really messed her up…_

Looking closer, he saw the echoes of fear and desperation hidden behind the easier emotion of anger. Or, rather, the appearance of anger. He'd seen a look like that on a face once…but in that case the face was equine, he was twelve, and the beast had nearly trampled him.

As vividly as he remembered horse he remembered the trainer who had, without flapping her arms or shouting at the beast, caught its attention, talked to it, then put it back on a leading rope.

But he'd seen it elsewhere, too: Shepard had _excelled_ at talking people down, using firm command to attract attention, using her projected sense of steadiness to quiet the nerves, using a sort of compassion or empathy as a leading rein to bring everyone back to the barn again.

What was Shepard's rule of negotiating? Aside from doing it best when everyone was armed…?

Find common ground, if it existed.

"Oh, I think I can." He met her gaze directly, uncertainty at his sudden position under orders of 'find out what the hell is going on' easing. "You ever hear of a company called Conatix?"

"Who the…" she had to pant for breath, sweat standing out on clammy cold skin. Overstretched. She had to know she was, and she had to know that the best thing for her would be to cut off the biotic shimmer, faint defiance. She wasn't as scary by this point as she seemed to think she was. It was almost pitiful to see.

"The first program for training human biotics; it was run by a company called Contatix. A lot like Cerberus."

The woman swore eloquently—the sentiment boiling down to 'they're _nothing_ like Cerberus'.

Something in him snapped. Yes, he knew Cerberus was much worse than Brian Camp…but hadn't it been just as traumatic for him, at the time? Wasn't trauma gauged on personal scales? They might not match up when two people compared experiences, but in the singular…

"They're _exactly_ like Cerberus!" he roared. "They took us from our families, promised us a future and turned us into their own damn lab rats! And those sons of bitches had _no_ idea what they were doing! _None_!" A ringing silence followed as he glared at her. "How do you know that our hell didn't pave the way for yours? How do you _know_?"

It was a good question, and had come to him as sudden inspiration. It _was_ a good question. Cerberus seemed to have roots in everything, who was to say some of the current members hadn't been with Conatix in a so-called previous life?

A silent struggle of wills ensued, one that Alenko won. Winning gave him the next turn to speak. "You come back from places like that, you're just a freak. People who knew you can't see you anymore: they just see the freak." His voice shook. "But you didn't have that—you had other horrors but you never saw your own parents ashamed to look at you." Not because he was a freak, but because they had let him fall into the hands of unscrupulous people. The shame came from having failed to protect their son. "You never had people who were supposed to be you friends turn their backs on you."

"Am I supposed to feel shocked? Or guilty?" the woman demanded, scoffing.

But he saw it: for a moment, he saw a flicker of something, a moment of connection.

 _I'm an L2, like you: believe me, if anyone can make Burns follow through, it's the Commander_.

"I _killed_ my way out of that pisshole, and then I blew the damn thing up!" the woman shouted, her voice bouncing off the walls. "I _buried_ my private hell—you seem to have reserved a room!"

"I killed our way out," Alenko answered, his tone flat, "and in the end it didn't mean anything. The damage was already done: we lost a lot of people, kids who'd never done anything to anyone in their lives. Dead. For no reason."

He was hitting the right words, but rather than elation, he felt nothing but a sick sort of horror, fear that this would somehow go wrong. Snipers had to be in position: a raging biotic was nothing to laugh at, and whoever was on that ship was probably trying to explain themselves to the brass… "Because Conatix hushed us up, stuffed us through the cracks and chinks in the system. L2s are so widely mistrusted that it's a wonder I made it as far as I have."

She pressed her lips together in resolute silence. "I don't believe you."

"I don't care. But believe this: right now, I am the only thing between you and probably half a dozen snipers. And whoever's on that ship back there is probably trying to convince the Brass that you're insane, dangerous, and should be shot on sight. So who's talking to them while I'm trying to talk to you?"

The girl's, face twitched. Clearly he'd hit another point already in her mind. For a moment she seemed to want to use the information as a bargaining chip, but whatever mental battle raged she didn't.

"Eva Rogers."


	21. Cut and Run

"Cerberus?" Cameron went pale.

"Oh, _do_ pull yourself together, man," Rogers sneered. "I have this under control."

"No, you don't." Cameron produced a pistol of his own, clearly that frightened by the emergency alert. "I'm retaking control. You're relieved of duty, Commander Rogers."

Rogers rolled her eyes, leveled her pistol and pulled the trigger. "Cerberus thanks you for your service, Captain, but it is no longer required."

Rogers holstered her pistol, rather glad to be free of Cameron's spineless whining and the endless posturing and placation it took to keep him happy, quiet, and out of her way. "VI: in accordance with the Systems Alliance Code of Military Justice, I am assuming command of this vessel, having found Capt. Cameron to be unfit for duty." Sato had tweaked the VI's programming to allow such a change in leadership. Technically the VI should require a little more than this (since it was still part of an Alliance program, it still had Alliance failsafes).

" _Accepted. Congratulations, acting-Captain Rogers_."

'Congratulations'? That was Sato's style, all right. "Give me the all call."

" _All call enabled_."

"To the crew of the _Queen Victoria_ , this is Captain Rogers." She liked the sound of the title. "Former Captain Cameron has been relieved of duty, I am assuming command. Prepared for FTL jump to the Omega relay on my mark." She wasn't sure she could talk her way out of trouble this time, not with two dead bodies and a raging fugitive who shouldn't be out of incarceration anyway.

The CIC was full of chatter, more unrestrained than when everyone pretended Cameron was in charge. This was the proper way of things, Rogers thought. Her crew could finally be comfortable without fear of that comfort being discovered. It wouldn't do for Cameron to think there was any laxity in command when Rogers had so many odd picks.

Now it didn't matter. Let them banter as they worked.

She met Morgan outside the communications array. "I've got two dead bodies," she said quietly, "one of the crew deck, one in Jack's hole. I want them out of here. Load them into the airlock. Jettison them when we make the jump."

"Who?" Morgan asked, his eyes lightning up at the thought of the ship finally consecrated by violence. It was one of the sorrows of his life that the _Queen Victoria_ had never seen it on her own decks.

Then again, Morgan was two steps short of being a complete barbarian. "Cameron and Browne."

"Splendid. I shall see to them at once." Clearly, he felt this should have been done long ago. Morgan had no use for the figurehead captain or the overly idealistic Browne. Morgan spoke one language and one language only: he spoke violence, the more unregulated the better.

Rogers stepped into the briefing room. "VI: has Arcturus intercepted our missing escape pod?"

" _Affirmative_."

"Patch me through to Arcturus security, use the encrypted emergency band." Rogers took a steadying breath. This was it.

" _Arcturus Station: what's your emergency,_ Victoria?"

"Arcturus Station, this is acting-Captain Eva Rogers. We've had a mission go sideways. A prisoner being transported as part of a covert operation has escaped and crashed her escape pod into your station. Be warned: she is _extremely_ dangerous."

" _Security is already trying to contain the situation."_

"Good, they'll want to be very careful. The subject is an extremely powerful, very unstable biotic. Her sedative dosages were miscalculated. I recommend immediate sedation or neutralization. Don't risk your men's safeties."

" _The situation is being handled. We require a full report of what happened. You are authorized to give it verbally._ "

Rogers was halfway through her account of events—a simple account that those who needed to could corroborate with easily enough—when the transmission yielded static and a new voice broke in.

" _Eva Rogers_ ," the voice was terse, repressing powerful emotion, " _you are hereby relieved of command under suspicion of involvement with a terrorist organization. Stand down immediately or you will be fired upon._ "

"Who's authorizing this detention?" she demanded, equally sharply. "I am in the middle of a civilian incident report—" That was what it was _technically_ classified as.

" _Capt. John Sheffler, Cerberus Investigation Unit. I won't tell you again: you_ will _stand down_."

He would shoot her. He would definitely shoot her, and now it all made sense. What perverse chance put _him_ here, now, when things were out of control? Rogers considered her options for a moment, but only a moment. She swiped her hand over the console to mute her end of the conversation. "Morgan, dump the trash."

It was burning a bridge, but incarceration with that anti-Cerberus zealot was risky. Too risky.

Riskier than jumping around in the relay queue.

" _Garbage away, Captain_!" the ever-efficient Morgan announced. He'd probably watched the jettison at the window, enjoyed the sendoff.

"VI: release the orders for mass relay access. Cut to the head of the line."

Speaking of garbage…hm. She supposed Trey's corpse was still on board. She'd need to rectify that…and figure out what to do with his now irreparably damaged sister. She needed a cigarette, this time for steadying her nerves and not the need for something to fiddle with.

" _All hands, brace for emergency relay access_. _Repeat: all hands, brace for emergency relay access,_ " the navigator announced.

Rogers toyed with some witty comment directed towards Sheffler—who was probably ordering Arcturus' varied defenses to target her ship, taking her silence for an answer and not a stalling tactic—but did not. She simply severed the connection.

" _Alert: evacuation pod released. Manual override enacted._ "

The _Victoria_ lurched as it hit the relay, causing Rogers to stumble and swear. "Are we hit?" she demanded of the VI, wanting some kind of surety of her situation now that everything had changed.

" _Negative, Captain._ "

"Who or what was in that pod?" she asked slowly.

" _The override code belonged to Sato, Ayame._ " 

Sato? Rogers' expression set into the very epitome of enraged confusion. How had d'Angelo subverted Sato, too?


	22. Jump Ship

" _To the crew of the Queen Victoria, this is Captain Rogers. Former Captain Cameron has been relieved of duty, I am assuming command. Prepared for FTL jump to the Omega relay on my mark_."

Lt. Ayame Sato took a deep breath as she exited the stairwell leading down to where d'Angelo Browne sat bleeding out. She stepped quickly aside when Security Officer Morgan—that lunatic—met her, nodded, then headed down to the little space.

Was it her, or had there been something in his eyes? Some glitter of knowledge she didn't share? Was it possible that d'Angelo knew, really _knew_ that Cerberus wanted what was in her brainpan as well? Was it just the point of death that loosened his lips?

She had no illusions: d'Angelo might still be breathing, but he was for all intents and purposes _dead_. Rogers was not a forgiving woman.

A chill passed over Sato. She'd already made her bed, done it in a panic, without thinking. It would get back to Rogers very soon—she couldn't afford to wait. Rogers would never hang around if she couldn't convince the Alliance that everything happening was simply a gigantic internal problem.

Not once they played back the message sent via a hijacked communications channel. And they would, too—Rogers would know. She'd know there was only one person who could hack her omnitool because the hacker was the one who set up its security. Only one person who knew where the back door into it was.

But she had a little time…

Glancing around for Morgan—she could hear him grunting, presumably shouldering d'Angelo's corpse—Sato took advantage of her moment alone in this corridor. She activated her omnitool, hacked into Rogers' and started a basic program that would copy as much of the data stored on that omnitool as possible.

She would need a sort of goodwill offering if she wanted to get away from Rogers, to get out of Rogers' reach. It would not be as simple as running to the Alliance for safety, but it was a start. She was a technological genius: she could make herself disappear, given time.

Sato swallowed as Morgan came up the stairs, d'Angelo, clearly dead, draped across his shoulders. Had Morgan silently finished off the dying man? The though made her shudder.

The ride down to the lowest deck—where the garbage release was—was the longest few seconds of Sato's life. She didn't like to think about d'Angelo's body being ejected into space. He'd never minded Rogers' rather draconian methods…but those methods had never been applied to crewmen before.

This was new. Frightening.

And she was, she realized more fully than ever, a target, a traitor, trapped on this boat.

She had to get off of it. As soon as possible.

She took the elevator back up, up to the crew deck to find a scene of destruction before her. Tonya was rocking back and forth, crying into Trey's shoulder. He was clearly dead, neck broken, given the funny angle of his head. In the middle of the floor lay Capt. Art Cameron, also dead, with a single bullet hole in him. It looked as though he'd been facing into the room, having just stepped out of the elevator, when he died.

Sato bit her lip. "Wh-what happened here?" she asked.

Tonya didn't answer, still trying to elicit a response from her twin. It was a pitiful sight, so Sato looked away, her eyes lightning on the missing panel on the bank of escape pods. So, Jack had managed to escape after all…or had she? She didn't think the weapons had been fired, but her attention had been so focused…

"Move, Sato." Morgan's two-word instruction garnered instant obedience. Sato moved, watching him heave Capt. Cameron onto his shoulders, presumably to take the body down to the garbage release. He paused long enough to study Trey's prone form, then to cast her a considering glance, before he hefted the Captain higher on his shoulders and lumbering off.

Sato's stomach turned cold. So, d'Angelo was right: she _was_ next.

Well, that wasn't going to happen. She wasn't going to let those brain butchers use _her_ as a template! She checked the condition of her download, wondering how much time she actually had. If Rogers managed to talk her way out of trouble, would Sato be safe until the next time the ship docked?

Or would Rogers just prep the next package for transport and hand her over in Jack's place?

Sato tried to calculate, but she didn't have enough information. It was a worse position than any she had ever anticipated finding herself in. She was trapped on a ship with a madwoman whose madness had finally bent itself on the ship's crew.

Sato had, as had many, always believed that being part of Rogers' crew was safe. Rogers knew her success depended on her associates and underlings, so she chose them with care, looked after them as long-term investments.

Something had changed. Apparently Rogers anticipated a time where she would not need her old ties…

" _All hands, brace for emergency relay access_. _Repeat: all hands, brace for emergency relay access._ "

Sato gave a cry of terror, wrenched one of the escape pod covers loose, her fingers scrambling for the catches. She managed to get into the pod, managed to enter her key code. She was almost too late: her pod had rotated just enough to see the mass relay flash, sending some object hurtling across space.

Sato's breathing was ragged as, for want of anything else to do before the Alliance took her escape pod into custody, she began going through the data recovered form Rogers' omnitool. She had not been very specific with regards to what was salvaged—she could only hope she had something useful in all the files and documents.

Rogers was a careful woman: she kept records of everything, so she had ammunition with which to protect herself if she needed to.


	23. Snap

Capt. John Sheffler stood in the observation hallway, watching Alenko talk to the biotic refugee, listening to the conversation via the open radio link. The girl's voice came across as being somewhat tinny, but that didn't matter: she was still audible.

Some innate sense of a situation left Sheffler with the nasty feeling that this mess went deep. Why would someone with Cerberus connections jump ship _here_? Did he have enough to detain the _Victoria_ , just until the matter could be sorted out? It was his job, after all, and his guts were rarely wrong. Unfortunately, his guts didn't signify probable cause, and he still had a lot of Alliance red tape, forms, and functions to maneuver through.

"Van," he tapped his second's shoulder, "find out for me who's running the _SSV Victoria_ and what her designation is. If anyone wants further authorization I'll send it through my omitool."

Van nodded sharply, the hurried away.

Sheffler had to give Alenko credit: the girl had certainly calmed down quite a bit—something the psychologist on standby commented on. It was probably good for Alenko to have this information, but he had the strong suspicion Alenko would have liked to take the shink's voice out of his ear.

It was a long process, but probably worth it, if he, Sheffler, could somehow have as much luck in getting her to explain what she knew about Cerberus, and its connection with the current…disruptions.

"So who's talking to them while I'm trying to talk to you?" Alenko asked patiently.

Good question…

"Eva Rogers."

Sheffler's mind momentarily went blank, then played back the words. _Eva Rogers._ That name and an obvious Cerberus link? Right here? Right now?

"Sir!"

Sheffler did the one of the stupidest things he'd ever done, he darted for the doorway into the hangar, bounded in. "What?"

Alenko turned around, biotic shied flaring as though expecting a fresh barrage.

"You said _who_?" Sheffler stopped at Alenko's shoulder, his full attention fixed on the girl. He didn't wait for an answer. " _Rogers_? Strong woman, dark hair, nasty disposition?"

"Old girlfriend?" the woman sneered.

Sheffler's expression was a mix of dawning horror and realization. He nodded slowly, then faster. He'd been chasing Shepard, a Cerberus agent with strong Alliance ties, but he'd been chasing the wrong woman.

In fact…if Rogers was, in fact, his mole, what was to say she hadn't helped direct the campaign to make sure the Alliance knew Shepard was alive and involved with Cerberus? It was the perfect blind…and he, the head of the Cerberus Investigation Unit, had gone tearing off after Shepard, disappointment fuelling his determination that she was the one he was looking for.

"Sheff," Van cracked in his ear, "the _Victoria_ is part of the Corsair program, under Capt. Art Cameron."

"Who's the XO?" By now both the woman and Alenko were frowning at Sheffler.

"Lt. Commander Eva Rogers—you might have heard of—"

Sheffler turned on his heel, shouting into his radio as he took off at a run. "This is Capt. Sheffler, CIU: _immediately_ impound that vessel. Probable cause for tight Cerberus ties. _Move_!"

"He's nuts," the woman noted.

"Cerberus killed his entire unit. If anyone hates them, it's him," Alenko explained quietly. "He's been hunting them for a long time. What about you? You tired of being hunted?"

"Consider her in protective custody," Sheffler barked from the door. He would have said more to the girl herself, but the comms suddenly buzzed, somehow hacked.

" _This is D'Angelo Browne, SSV Victoria,_ " a labored voice declared.

The girl jumped, her expression wild again.

" _This…is a Cerberus vessel…under the command of Commander Eva Rogers. The girl you have…must be kept…safe."_ There was a gasp, a sputter, then for a moment silence, before d'Angelo spoke again…or seemed to: there was a faint distortion in the words, indicating a recording.

" _I_ said _, prep the girl for transport. Cerberus wants her—or her brainpan. Frankly, I'll be glad to have the walking ruin off my ship. She's more trouble than she's worth. If I have to hold her hand anymore…"_

" _You made it clear I was to do the hand-holding."_

" _I don't care what you were holding, d'Angelo, as long as you had her_ trust _."_

" _She's in my care, Eva."_

" _Yes, and you've done a marvelous job. But you're not a fool, d'Angelo: she's unstable, and it worries you. You've stopped her little tantrums from going critical twice, now, but can you do it again?_ Dope _her,_ secure _her, and prepare for FTL jump. Now."_

Silence, then the playback of the conversation, beginning with the introductory statements, began again.

Sheffler's mind raced, adrenaline dumping into his system. The idea that hard vacuum was in his way had never been so frustrating! "Get me the _Victoria_ …"

" _Sir, they're already in communications with_ —"

" _Now_. I'm superseding the communication lines on my own initiative." They were so close to the relay that the _Victoria_ could make a successful run for it. Lockdown wouldn't occur fast enough though, not now. The regulations and rules demanded that he at least give the order, even if it wasn't feasible. "Get me an open channel!" He didn't usually throw his weight around, but this was an emergency.

" _You're connected, sir,_ " the communications officer announced meekly.

"Eva Rogers, you are hereby relieved of command under suspicion of involvement with a terrorist organization. Stand down immediately or you _will_ be fired upon."

It felt _so_ good to say that. Although it would be better to have her in custody…blowing her up didn't seem like such a bad outcome, either.

" _Who's authorizing this detention? I am in the middle of a civilian incident report—"_

"Capt. John Sheffler, Cerberus Investigation Unit. I won't tell you again: you _will_ stand down."

The sound cut: she'd muted her end, which meant only one thing.

He changed channels, "Security, prepare to open fire."

"Sorry sir, the _Victoria_ 's already gone," the security officer answered.

Sheffler closed his eyes, swearing in his mind.


	24. Wind Down

"Commander Alenko, I'm appointing you this woman's liaison for the time being. Find her a safe niche, there should be staffroom or something close by. If she needs anything, you can delegate to my man Javier over there," he pointed to one of the assembly in the hallway.

Alenko hoped Sheffler wasn't so distracted that he didn't tell 'Javier' he was now a gofer. There were too many faces to pick out one among them.

The girl was on the defensive again as Sheffler strode out, but she was starting to come apart, Alenko noticed when he turned back to her, his expression mildly apologetic. It showed in her expression. Somehow, he'd reached her, on some level she was _listening_ to his words, giving them due consideration.

"What's your name?" It was the best, most normal, question he could come up with.

For a moment he thought she was going to open another barrage on him, jump off the deep end, attack like any cornered creature. She did not, however, nor did she answer until the doors hissed closed and Sheffler—who clearly puzzled her—was out of sight. "…Jack."

It must, he decided, be short of 'Jacqueline'. "I'm Kaidan. And I really do want to help you."

"And what's the pricetag on—"

"With everything going on right now? Strictly speaking, I don't think anyone needs you to do much of anything."

"I thought I killed him," Jack said slowly.

Alenko wasn't sure who she meant, unless it was the d'Angelo Browne from the comm system. Someone had finally killed the message, but he hadn't noticed when, exactly. "Apparently not." The words jumped out too fast, but didn't seem to work counter to him.

"Bastard played me!" The words came out in a rage, then it was gone again. "…tried to save me…"

"Then let me do what he could only try to do: there's a safe place for biotics, and if anyone got one whiff of Cerberus there, the whole galaxy would come down on them." Alenko said slowly.

"You're lying."

"Grissom Academy: people don't like it when kids get messed with, and that station is full of little geniuses and biotics. Our kind of people." It was probably where they _would_ send her…though she'd probably be sequestered somewhere safe and quiet. He'd make it his official recommendation—if she was dangerous, her current mindset was not doing anyone any favors. Too much was happening too quickly; it was all over her face.

"I am _nothing_ like you!" Jack snarled, getting worked up again.

"You sure?" He acted on instinct, as though feeling his way by touch through a dark room. He dropped his barrier, then walked calmly over to her. "You're a take-action kind of girl, and I've had my barrier down for more than ten seconds. Take-action girls don't give a guy ten seconds to get near them if they really mean to turn him into a pretzel."

"You calling my bluff?"

"Yes. Are you going to call mine?" He stopped, dry mouthed, but so certain, so painfully certain he had the right idea.

"If you screw me…" She pointed, warningly, at him.

"All I'm going to do is walk you to the nearest staff room, like Sheffler said. And I'll stay with you if anyone wants to talk to you. You don't have to do anything you don't want to. Well, for the time being."

Jack curled her lip. "You talk like a boy scout."

Alenko laughed, unexpectedly, then, when Jack's sneer deepened, "One of those 'take-action' girls used to call me that. Never did know if it was an insult or not." He was fairly sure that Jack meant it as an insult while Shepard meant it as a compliment.

Most of the time.

"Tch. Just start walking," Jack snarled, "it's _cold_ in here." She hopped down from her perch, approached him cautiously.

Alenko did not say a word, but only then realized that her brilliant shirt was not actually a shirt. She was wearing ink and—he realized—only her heavy-duty cargo pants. She must have left the ship in a real hurry.

"So who was she? This tough bitch friend of yours?" Jack demanded unexpectedly, as Alenko gave an order to clear the hall before trying to walk Jack through it. He didn't like to think of her being in that press of people…it was just a _bad_ idea.

Alenko immediately decided not to use Shepard's surname; it would sound melodramatic, like name dropping…as if this girl would care. "Her name's…Jalissa." The name felt weird on his tongue, as it always did. Then, on inspiration, "I'm, uh, kind of in the dog house with her right now, so if you have any advice…?" He didn't want it, didn't need it, but she seemed happier when there was chatter around her.

Jack eyed him closely, clearly unsure of this was a joke, or some attempt to…she didn't know, but suspicion was all over her face. It was odd how expressive her face was, for someone who seemed so mistrustful. Finally she twitched her shoulders, crossed her arms, though more out of attitude than a desire to cover up. "Tch. With an ass like that? You'll be out in a week. Less if you weren't such a boy scout."

He didn't quite know what to say to this. It was not an answer he expected. "Thanks."

Jack shrugged as if to say 'if you don't want an answer, don't ask'. But something at the corner of her mouth tugged, as though she was proud of the reaction she got. Amused by it, even, which caused the other corner of her mouth to rise a fraction of an inch.

Well, let her have her amusement at his expense, Alenko thought philosophically. If anyone needed a scrap of amusement, this girl certainly did.

And she was right: don't ask questions one doesn't really want answered. _Especially_ if the question has the potential for being a joke.


	25. Sold Out

Operative "Pavo" sat back in his apartment on the Citadel, frowning at the letter he'd been working on. He'd spent the better part of an hour and a half drafting it, but still wasn't happy with it. Or maybe he just wasn't happy with the situation prompting it.

He was glad to find, when he thought about it, that he was _not_ emotionally attached to his data source. Not at all. In fact, the idea was completely laughable: one did not get attached to women like _that_ , not the least because she wouldn't permit an indignity like forming emotional attachments with anyone, so no one else was allowed to do so with her.

It also showed in the way he didn't feel it necessary to use her name. She was a tool, even now when she was about to be retired. There was no sympathy. There would be no remorse. It was just business.

She was fun to play with, the right kind of kinky to appeal to his tastes, dangerous…but you didn't trust women like that, and you had to know—as a Spectre—when to cut an information source loose.

Besides, as far as intel went, he was ninety nine percent sure she was tapped out. She was tapped, and he had what he wanted. Not necessarily what he _needed_ , but he'd long ago realized she was not as big a fish as she liked to believe—as she was _allowed_ to believe, in all probability. That was espionage (or counterespionage). It wasn't for the faint of heart or the morally irreproachable.

He would miss, though, the balancing act of eliciting information out of her (by word of mouth or by raiding her personal documentation) while leaving her just enough information to make her think she was successfully playing him—but all of which was not, in itself, problematic. She was clever, with a mind like a steel trap and razor-sharp intelligence. On _that_ score, at least, she was every bit as well-developed as she liked to believe.

It had been fun, in a way, because each knew the other was trying to pry—though each maintained their own reasons for doing so under a cloud of obscurity. Unfortunately, Pavo had a larger organization behind him. A better-practiced one.

He found himself smirking: oh, was she about to get her comeuppance. Morally speaking she was a real piece of work, even by his questionable standards—Spectres usually had questionable moral standards, it was part of the job when one had to make uncomfortable decisions on a regular basis.

It would be poetic justice, and when she settled down enough to plot revenge (she rarely knew when she was bested) she'd appreciate it…even as she appreciated the merits of finding him and disemboweling him.

In short, she'd be out of control of her own situation as soon as this letter reached its intended destination—and if there was one thing she couldn't bear it was to be out of control. She'd learned to be a controller at a young age; it had only gotten worse as she got older. She'd have made a superb Spectre if she'd had loyalty to anything other than her own interests.

Ah, well, such was life, so full of 'almost.'

At the very least—as far as he was concerned—their last assignation was the perfect note to end on: she certainly hadn't been in control _then_. The thought brought about a smug flutter of his mandibles. No, that wasn't a side of her she liked people to see.

If she managed to squiggle out of the tight spot into which he was about to put her, things could become _very_ interesting. Bullets would assuredly be involved, but some people were easier to kill if lulled into complacency.

And he wasn't above that tactic himself. It would be a very interesting scenario.

But he doubted it would ever come about. The Alliance wanted their mole too badly.

-J-

To: Sheffler, John. (Human Systems Alliance, Arcturus Station.)

From: Special Tactics and Reconnaissance, Agent Designation "Pavo"

[This file is double encrypted. Please enter your alliance military access code for access.]

USERINPUT: 44532218

[INPUT MATCH. Accepted. Decrypting.]

Commander Sheffler:

The Special Tactics and Reconnaissance (Spectres) have been involved in a major ongoing investigation, the nature of which is not up for discussion. Part of that investigation dealt with mining the terrorist organization designated 'Cerberus' for certain information. Being a hostile entity towards myself and my compatriots, we have been forced to gather intelligence via second parties.

I am now turning one of those parties over to you: former Commander Eva Kathryn Rogers, a member of the Corsair program administrated by your military. The name may be familiar to you.

You have a mole, Commander, and it is my understanding that you've been looking for her. Here she is. She has ceased to be essential as an information pipeline to me, but perhaps she can still be useful to you.

I attach certain documentation that your Intelligence branch may look over as they like. I can assure you it is all authentic. She's clever, but she's no Spectre. If she asks, please do tell her who sold her out. She knew it would come to this, she simply thought she would be the one on top when it happened.

On a serious note, exercise supreme caution should you try to bring her in: she's a biotic, but more than that she's cunning, ruthless, and a perfect opportunist. Pick your battlefield carefully. Detach her from her crew. I hope your interrogation teams have improved since the last time anyone I knew chatted with them.

"Pavo"

-J-

Fourteen hours later, after a very long day, John Sheffler opened his mailbox, read the letter, and stared at the accumulated footage, spending logs, action reports—enough information to have damned Rogers so completely that even miracles wouldn't have saved her.

The one morning, he thought grimly, the _one morning_ he didn't check his email.


	26. Last Warning

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Alenko asked upon being admitted to Councilman Anderson's office.

"I did. We've got a message." Anderson looked older than ever, lines of worry and tension radiating from his face.

"From Shepard?" He was not sure he wanted to hear what kind of professional she wanted to leave: there was no way it was good news.

Anderson held up a holo-recording, then set it on the table as Alenko moved closer. Once they stood, one on either side of the desk, Anderson turned the message on.

Shepard, her face unblemished, the ugly scarring and that bizarre orange light vanished sat comfortably in a chair as she addressed the recorder. " _Anderson, it's been awhile_. _I've included for you the last wills and testaments of several of my crewmen—I don't trust Cerberus to see to their affairs, but I know you would do it for those on the frontlines. I, myself, find it necessary to tell you that if you don't hear from me within the next standard week it means I'm dead, and my crew is probably dead, and the galaxy is screwed. Just a heads up."_ Her expression went grim. " _All joking aside, this is going to be insanely dan—"_

The recording cut out, replaced with a close up of Shepard's face, haggard and looking as though she had a murder on her conscience. Alenko gripped the edge of the table. Her face was livid with the green of healing bruises and several more which were purple, almost blue, and decidedly fresh. She looked pale, and her lips seemed to quiver as though she was struggling to maintain her composure.

" _Anderson: get Alenko's ass in here, this message is for him, too._ " Her voice was low, husky, and held a note of something akin to desperation. " _Listen, by the time you get this, you'll have heard all about Aratoht_ …"

Alenko closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. That explained it: she'd been involved with it. His blood went icy in his veins, trying to understand how she had gotten mixed up in that…and why.

" _I didn't want it to go like that, but in case Hackett decides not to talk, the Reapers were trying to use the relay as an insertion point, and if they had they'd have had access to the entire relay network. I know it sounds crazy, but…_ " she stopped herself, cutting off a clear attempt to justify herself.

Alenko opened his eyes again, wanted to reach out and touch that battered face, wanted to kiss her until the dammed reservoir of tears behind her eyes could break. She always did hold too much in, and in this case it was painful to watch. This must have been recorded just hours after it happened for her to look so doggedly determined to record this message and send it out.

" _That's not what this is about,"_ but it was hard to tell if the words were for her viewers or for herself. " _I'll cut to the chase: Alenko, get your family off Earth. Now. I don't care if you have to drug them or bonk them on the head, get them_ out _."_ She took a short breath, bracing herself to continue. " _Earth's probably the first place the Reapers will hit, or if it isn't, it's at near the top of the list, and they'll hit it hard. I can't save everyone, I may not be able to save anyone but…forewarned is forearmed. Get them out while there's time. Same for you, Anderson: if there's anyone there, get them out. Please get them out…_ " With that last plea, the message cut back to the original recording.

He reached for the playback button and wound the recording back, freezing it so Shepard's ravaged expression looked up at him. It was pitiful to see her in this kind of agony, and only desperate knowledge that she could not afford to wait, that they would need all the time they could get to extract their loved ones, made her record the message before pulling herself together.

"Do you need to take some time, Alenko?" Anderson asked quietly, walking over to the overlook onto the Presidium ring.

With Anderson's back turned, Alenko shifted so sight of the hologram was blocked by his back. Satisfied, he reached up, caressing the air of Shepard's holographic cheek. "Yes." He would, of course, take heed. He knew about the Reapers, and if Shepard said they were running out of time, they were running out of time.

Yet the making of plans to extract his family seemed curiously distant as he watched Shepard's face. He had the nasty suspicion she was not just at Aratoht: he suspected she was responsible for the destruction of the relay and everything else. Yet he couldn't blame her for it, couldn't wonder where her sanity was, couldn't wonder what had happened to the woman he loved.

She was right there, with all those lives on her shoulders, the pain over what she had done in hopes of saving as many of the numberless other sapients in the galaxy as possible gleaming in her eyes. So many people could have pushed the button, written the deaths off as collateral damages in a war no one knew was being fought…but not Shepard.

"Take the time."

Alenko's hand dropped to the desk before he groped to turn the recording off. That haunted look was beginning to haunt him. "So if she's saving us," he said in a low tone that still carried, "and we're saving our families…who's saving her?"

Not saving her from shit hitting the fan, or when bullets started flying. Who was saving her from herself? The look on her face said it all: if she saw Hackett, she might have her composure pulled together enough to put on her commander face…

…but the instant word reached her to come to Earth, to stand trial for the death and destruction of Aratoht, she would go without resistance.


	27. Evaluate

Kelly Chambers never expected to hear from Shepard again, so when a Shadow Broker agent 'acting on the Commander's behalf' arranged a meeting, she was both pleased and alarmed.

By now, the whole galaxy knew that Shepard had been at the Bahak system and that the entire cluster had gone dark. It was popularly supposed the relay had been destroyed.

And yet, here they were, using a hotel room on Illium as a meeting place. Chambers had no doubt that the room had been carefully swept for monitoring devices and, for once, she didn't have any to be detected.

"Chambers." Shepard nodded once, her expression lined with concerns and…

…pain. Fear. Grief. Remorse.

It was the expression Chambers supposed anyone with a conscience would wear after having wiped out hundreds of thousands of people. She found the miasma of negative emotions reassuring: it contradicted the supposition that Shepard had finally gone crazy and executed some kind of revenge for Mindoir.

"Shepard. What can I do for you?" Shepard looked surprised, as if she thought she'd been very discreet. Chambers smiled at her. "Shepard, I'm a psychologist. I'm was also part of Cerberus. And you don't like either very much. Though I'm glad you don't mind _me_."

"You're one of my crew."

That was Shepard's way of saying that, should the time come, Chambers could count on her help getting _away_ from Cerberus. "We're not here to talk about me, are we? I have to say, I was surprised when a Shadow Broker agent not only contacted me on your behalf, but set all this up," she motioned to the locale.

Shepard said nothing, but the silence implied that the agent in question owed her a favor.

"So what's so important that you'd blow a favor from an intelligence organization just to see me?"

"I don't remember you being this astute," Shepard noted.

Chambers chuckled, then walked over to the bar. Shepard had already made it clear it was open, should she want anything. "You didn't need me to come across as astute. And it would have made observing you and the others more difficult."

"You're Machiavellian, Chambers." There was respect in the tone, and little signs of self-disgust that she, Shepard, had somehow miscalculated her crewman.

"I am." It sounded like something Operative Lawson would say. "Is this about the Bahak Incident?" Chambers asked, pouring juice over the ice in her cup before preparing one for Shepard as well.

"Sort of." Shepard seemed to stall, unable to gracefully come to the point.

"If you wanted to talk, you'd have talked to Vakarian, or Tali'Zorah. If you wanted to be blamed you'd have gone to the Alliance. So there's something else that makes you willing to talk to me in a professional capacity." Chambers handed Shepard one of the drinks.

Shepard produced a datapad. "I need you to give me a field psychology test. Make sure everything upstairs is…okay."

Chambers looked at the datapad, which had a biometric seal on it. Clearly Shepard had not investigated her previous results, so as not to influence the current iteration. Chambers did not ask why, but she didn't have to. Shepard's posture screamed that something was wrong.

Something was wrong enough to _frighten_ her. Chambers sipped her drink, forced herself into an attitude of casual calm, and sat down in the comfiest chair near the couch. The overlook of Nos Astra was beautiful, but something she could ignore. "Come sit down. Or sprawl, whatever's comfortable."

Shepard didn't sit, merely stood beside the couch. "I was exposed to Reaper tech for a prolonged period of time. And from what I understand brain scans aren't going to tell me anything."

"Oh…I see." Chambers swallowed, unlocked the datapad, scanned through the contents. "All right. I'll do what I can. I do need you to try to relax, though, so we'll start with some very basic, very easy questions."

Shepard nodded, her lips pursed, eyes occluded.

"I need you to be honest."

"I want a conclusive answer, Chambers. False data returns false findings. I don't want that."

Fair enough. The simple fact that Shepard did not seem concerned that she, Chambers, would share this session with _anyone_ , was flattering.

Or maybe she had faith in the loyalty of her crewmen. Goodness knew that Shepard had a right to expect that much, at least. "Okay, let's have your name."

Shepard gave it with military precision.

The background questions went over easily, though Shepard did not volunteer additional information, despite the questions becoming increasingly open to elaboration.

That wasn't surprising. Shepard could get one-tracked when in pursuit of a concrete answer.

Unfortunately, Chambers couldn't _give_ her a concrete answer. These things were never that simple. However, as the session went on, Chambers found that she could at least reassure Shepard. There was nothing in her responses that varied from her last psych evaluation.

The evaluation took hours—it had to, Chambers knew, in order to wear down resistances and leave the subject in a state tired enough to let out unguarded answers. Everyone, even someone with nothing to worry about or nothing to hide, tried to guard their answers.

No one liked having psychological evaluators grill them; it afforded an outsider an intimate look at the subject being reviewed without any kind of friendly association to buffer the scrutiny.

"Well, I've gone over everything I possibly can. I don't see any meaningful deviations from your last evaluation. The only thing I'm worried about is your ability to bounce back after…" she trailed off tactfully.

Shepard, who had eventually sprawled on the couch, got up. "So I'm okay?"

"As far as I can tell you're fine," Chambers got to her feet, locked the datapad, and handed it to Shepard. "I worry as part of my profession, Shepard, and as far as you're concerned, I'm not worried. Which is rather odd, now that I think about it."

Shepard smiled ruefully. "Good. Thanks, Chambers."

"What now?"

Shepard looked out the window. "Legal proceedings."


	28. Retrieval

It was not exactly the kind of place Anderson ever expected to see Shepard, but that was where Admiral Hackett asked him to go. He would have volunteered of course, but it meant something to be asked, trusted with such a delicate pickup.

Shepard sat on the Normandy's tailgate as the ship hovered over the beach, waiting patiently for the reclamation squad. She did not get up; rather she waited until security helped her to her feet.

 _Helped_ her to her feet, not _dragged_ her to them. He'd briefed the unit how they should behave. This wasn't dragging someone into custody: this was bringing her home. Shepard was a damn hero—even if he could only surmise that she had done what she'd done for a damn good reason. The evidence was right here, Shepard, the SR-2 and such of her collaborators who would not be separated from her. He didn't expect many crewmen to remain—she would have counseled them to jump ship.

Already several had turned themselves in, proud to have served, unwilling to find safety or anonymity.

She looked bone tired, her face battered and bruised, nicked and cut, as if it had been one fight after another with no time in between to rest and do more than smack a hasty application of medigel to the injuries. None were deep, though, none would scar…

…but he thought he recognized the abrasions on her bare forearms: the defensive wounds that came from fighting a turian. Carapace scuffed skin like no one's business. He'd seen it.

Hell, he'd experienced it.

"Hey, Shepard," Anderson shook her hand carefully; her knuckles showed signs of wear and tear.

"Hey, Anderson." She looked haunted, but was master of herself.

Well, who wouldn't be haunted? He'd expected her to be something of a nervous wreck and he suddenly had suspicions about those defensive wounds. Sometimes a friend had to help another friend to break down, and Shepard was the type who needed that wall-to-wall counseling in extremity.

And Shepard had a very good friend who happened to _be_ turian.

Not that Anderson expected to find him here. Shepard would have insisted he leave, if only to see what could be done about preparing his people for the coming invasion.

"I'm officially here to arrest you. However, Hackett is taking your willingness to _be_ arrested into consideration. So don't bust my chops and I won't bust yours." She was an N, so she'd understand.

Shepard's mouth looked a little less grim and her eyes seemed somehow brighter. "I'll try."

"Good enough." He didn't have to stomach to put her in handcuffs, but he did accept her dog tags when she held them out.

"Also…" She moved to reach into a cargo pocket but paused, waiting for permission to do so.

Security on this mission wasn't comprised of the nervous sort of soldier. In fact, he'd picked them for that very reason. He trusted Shepard; he didn't need some rookie getting nervous when an N7 wanted to reach into a pocket or move suddenly.

Shepard produced an OSD. "This is…ah, I came across it." She handed it over. "Consider it a goodwill gesture—it should put a crimp in the Illusive Man's day."

"Sounds more like an insurance policy," Anderson remarked, pocketing the disk.

"What he doesn't know…"

Anderson chuckled at this, cuffed Shepard on the shoulder. "So?" he motioned to the _Normandy_.

"My helmsman and the ship's doctor stayed. I required everyone else to leave before I surrendered," Shepard answered.

"Of course you did."

"Hey," Shepard called to security, which had begun to head toward the elevator at the end of the cargo bay, with the intent of securing the helmsman and the ship's doctor. "Don't go breaking my pilot." The warning came out calmly, but contained the steel of someone used to giving command and used to having those commands followed. A good officer's tone.

"Joker?" Anderson asked, surprised.

Shepard nodded. "And Dr. Chakwas."

It was surprising, though perhaps it shouldn't be. Shepard had a way of attracting the best, of holding her crew's loyalty. There was a reason most of the SR-1's crew ended up in the same place, especially after rumors of her return began to circulate. Probably leaked by Cerberus to shake things up.

 _Damn_ , he hated Cerberus; bunch of terrorist secret squirrels. That brought up the impending interrogations Shepard would have to sit through—though he'd found a way to keep the interrogators behaving nicely. He wasn't going to have one of his crew beleaguered and bullied; not the least because Shepard, out of training or out of spite, would fall back on her name, rank, and serial number.

Hackett was in this up to his neck; Anderson wasn't sure how the admiral figured in, but first Bahak, then Shepard's surrender, it just seemed too opportune. Cause and effect, even.

"Well, when you need the best," Anderson shook his head. "Joker never seemed alright after you…disappeared."

"Yes," Shepard nodded, falling into step beside him.

"They reworked the old girl," he approved as Shepard cued the elevator—presumably—to take them to the CIC.

"I can give Cerberus props for being engineers, if nothing else. She's…really something." Affection for the ship was clear.

Well, spacers got attached to their ships, often thought of the ship as 'home' and their apartment at their ship's home port as temporary quarters only. This ship, apart from being like the SR-1, seemed worthy of affection. It neatly balanced civilian comfort with military functionality.

"This is the crew deck. Unless you have objections, I'll sequester myself in the XO's cabin. I suppose there's the cargo hold but the window was never the same after—" Shepard cut herself off, the abrupt full stop hinting that she had nearly revealed more about her ground team than she wanted to.

She would need to get over that.

She sighed, then, and closed her eyes. "The window was never the same after Grunt bashed his head against it."


	29. Return

After a brief tour of the ship—following Shepard letting him have a look at the place she intended to be sequestered—she directed him up here, to the commanding officer's quarters. It was funny, in a way, that Shepard had seen to everything from the seeing-off of her crew to her own isolation. Some people might have argued that a cargo bay would be a better place to keep her…but there were a lot of things in a cargo bay that an N7 could use to varying effects and that might make security nervous.

That, and this way would keep him from having to walk as far if he wanted to see her.

Which he did; he had questions, but wasn't willing to rush into asking them.

Admiral Anderson had to admit that, for all Cerberus' failings, they knew how to spend money. The captain's cabin was beautifully appointed, though it showed signs of having recently had all personal touches removed.

Shepard had, in fact, forgotten to dust a shelf, which bore an odd dust-free square patch—he'd noted the hamster in its tank in the former XO's quarters, which was probably what had left the mark—but the familiar collection of model ships still adorned the office area's 'wall' space.

Except for the model of the _Normandy_ , conspicuously absent. That particular model rested on the desk, as though asking 'please put me back where I belong.' He remembered very well Shepard's disgust over how he had come to leave the _Normandy_ in the first place. Clearly she felt that he, at least, was back where he belonged.

It had been a wrench to hand over the _Normandy_ to her, even if he knew it was for a good cause. He'd loved the ship from the first time he set eyes on her. However, he comfortably could admit that the _Normandy_ , SR-1 or SR-2, was _Shepard_ 's ship. If sheep became like shepherds, then the _Normandy_ had become Shepard's. They'd 'got used to one another' as the saying ran.

Which was why he would always feel like a visitor. Some people might call all this utter nonsense, but most of those people weren't spacers.

He placed the model _Normandy_ back in its brackets. The SR-2 might be bigger than the SR-1, but no one could say anything nasty about the up-scaling of size: the _Normandy_ still looked like a lean, mean bird of prey.

And, he had to admit it again as he gazed around, it was a _very_ nice suite for the commanding officer. Good to see Cerberus had, at least, valued the kind of CO they'd drafted.

The empty fish tanks puzzled him, but he could see how (with fish in them) they could be soothing. The question was why there were no fish…

Someone had put _serious_ thought into this room. Serious thought and serious credits…like the stabling for a prize-winning racehorse. They might be asking the impossible of Shepard, but they'd had the good graces to appoint comfortable living quarters. He'd seen apartments that were smaller and less comfortable.

He knew she'd list it as an attempt to buy her off—it probably was—but logistically it was easier to do an impossible job if you had a few of the civilian comforts military frigates often sacrificed.

…he found himself constantly and consistently distracted by the empty fish tanks. They were like…an unpainted wall in an otherwise finished and furnished room. He'd have to ask Shepard about them. Maybe he was missing their true purpose, or maybe he just…well, some people called a black dot in the bottom right corner of a large white canvas 'art.' Maybe it was like that.

Anderson dropped into the chair at the workstation. "Ow, dammit!" he barked as he knocked a knee against a minifridge he hadn't seen—partly because he hadn't expected it to be there—as he swiveled to face the terminal. A mini-fridge. They'd even stocked her on Astro-Fizz. The whole room was a great gesture of 'making nice' but anyone could have told them to save their credits.

Maybe it was best that they didn't: Cerberus' resources couldn't be limitless and he couldn't even begin to calculate how much it had cost to build this ship without anyone knowing anything about it. He remembered being staggered by the original _Normandy's_ price tag, and she was Spartan compared with her successor. Maybe it was enough to drain them…and Shepard wasn't exactly a cheap replica (or any kind of replica, he added hastily in thought), either.

Anderson turned on the terminal, finding the prerecorded, preprogrammed 'hello and welcome' Shepard had left where he could easily find it. No blind poking around in the terminal, trying to figure out her unique sense of organization: just where to find what, and anything not listed probably wasn't important. He was glad to see she'd kept after-action reports, despite not being required to fill them out. That showed premeditation in absenting herself from Cerberus: she meant to do it sooner or later.

At this point, he might have asked why Shepard was at Aratoht at all, but he'd already had the question answered (by surmise more than concrete fact): Hackett had asked her to go, the mission went sideways, and now a great deal of care would be needed to manage the fallout. It was not really a question of protecting the galaxy from Shepard; it was a question of protecting Shepard from the galaxy.

Well, what was done was done, and nothing would be resolved or mediated by finger-pointing. The sooner she was at Arcturus, the better. Hackett could do what he needed to do then, very quietly, ship her to Earth. Earth was by far the safest place.

…depending on how one weighted the concept of safety. Still, Headquarters was on Earth, and it would be harder for anyone with murder on their minds to get close enough to try anything.

…something had to be done about those fish tanks.

-J-

Author's note: Just a short one, to say that _Newton's Third Law_ is confirmed!


	30. Transplant

It was a little too much like voodoo for James Vega's liking. Too opportune. He got to his feet, staunching the flow of blood into his face. David Anderson—resigned from the post of Councilor—stood with an escort of two security goons all armed with assault rifles.

Good idea on Omega. "Admiral Anderson…?" He certainly had admiral tags, now.

Anderson lowered his rifle, frowning as the last of the batarians limped away. "Dust yourself off and follow me."

Then, when Vega straightened up only very slowly.

"That's an _order_ , Lieutenant."

Vega frowned at security, but followed along. It was one of those rare moments when someone said 'do this' and disobedience didn't seem possible. Anderson hadn't raised his voice, hadn't given one hint of being overbearing. He simply repeated the canned catchphrase of all officers who needed to reinforce a verbal command.

Not that he didn't respect Anderson—the man was an N7 and, old or not, could probably break him in half.

It would be interesting to see him try, but Vega's deep-seated certainty was that Anderson _could_ and _would_ , if necessary. "Where're we going?" Vega demanded after about thirty feet of silent marching.

Anderson had the gait of a career soldier, an ingrained sort of quick march that indicated someone of surety with somewhere to be and a fixed time limit to get there…but that someone was above rushing around like an FNG.

Vega wasn't dumb, but he did not consider himself the most observing of individuals. He'd observed this about the military, though: the longer you were in, the more ingrained the basics got until even instinct would give way to 'programmed behavior.'

"I'm taking you back for more training," came Anderson's simple answer.

Training? What 'training?' It was pretty clear, so he thought, that his being out here mean he wasn't interested in more training. Come to think of it, Anderson _should_ be sending him to the brig. Or, more accurately, someone's lackey should be putting him in the brig.

Suddenly…he didn't like how this was playing out.

"You need to get past what happened on Fehl," Anderson said, as if he somehow heard Vega's train of thought. There was something in Anderson's tone that kept the snapped response Vega usually reserved for people who said he needed to 'get over Fehl' from sounding. Maybe it was the fact that Anderson didn't actually say ' _get over_.' Getting _past_ was a different thing altogether.

Maybe it was the fact that one didn't get to be an N7 without making some ugly choices. He didn't know about Anderson's but the man probably had them.

And there was another 'something' in Anderson's tone that made Vega uneasy. It wasn't like being told to grow up. It was more like his uncle slamming down that pile of books: _if you want to get in, better start studying._ Still…was he really just going to take this? He was being volun-told…and that was one thing he had a problem with… "What the hell for?"

"Time for you to be the soldier we expect of you."

"No disrespect, sir," and he meant that, "but I'd rather not 'get past it.'" It didn't seem right to even try getting over it.

He shuddered, a parade of faces drifting past his mind's eye, and always, always, with hers figuring into the parade, repeatedly, accusingly. He shuddered again, wishing the fight was still on, that Anderson had minded his own damn business…

"Hmph. You're a damned fool if you think I'm going to let a soldier as good as you are piss your life away in this shithole," Anderson's voice carried a bite to it, like a verbal slap to the face. Not an insult, but the kind of slap used to bring a guy who was dead drunk back to some form of consciousness.

'This shithole.' There was emphasis in the words. The fact that he was feeling so sensitive to tone and wording made Vega even more uneasy. There was a heavy implication that life was chock full of shitholes just waiting to be crawled through. 'Better shitholes,' if that were possible.

He did not like the way his day was suddenly going.

"Where're we going?"

"You're coming with me to Arcturus."

" _Arcturus_? There's nothing for me on Arcturus!"

"I've got something for you. Something you've never had before."

Oh, he did _not_ like the sound of that…

"Look, just throw me in the damn brig—" Vega's words stalled as Anderson led him into a docking bay. There it was, the unicorn, as if anyone could mistake those sleek lines, the elegant backward sweep of the hull, like a femme fatale showing off a thigh rig where a garter should have been.

The _SSV Normandy_. It gave him a funny wobble in the stomach to see her there, waiting quietly but with a palpable sense of menace, the kind of menace exuded by any predator you knew could kill you and not care.

But she was beautiful. He couldn't quite stop himself from, as they walked towards the airlock, reaching out. He could just brush the hull with the very tips of his fingers.

Beautiful.

…and weird, because the _Normandy_ was Shepard's ship.

"Close. But you'll be _guarding_ the brig, not filling it." Anderson had, at some point, turned to watch the hesitant caress of the ship. In fact, as the older man glanced at it, Vega caught a sort of wistful look.

The _Normandy_ had once been under Anderson's command, though she was now and forever remembered as being _Shepard's_ ship. Yeah. It'd be a real wrench to get benched from a ship like this.

And he _didn't_ usually get goo-goo eyed over a _ship_.

"You've got one prisoner to keep an eye on."

Vega watched the airlock opened, looked at the word _Normandy_ plastered across the ship's side.

"Who?" he asked suspiciously.

Anderson snorted as if this should have been obvious. "Commander Shepard."

The bottom dropped out of Vega's world.


	31. Illusions

Vega followed Anderson with quick steps, his attention swinging between the interior of the _SSV Normandy_ and Anderson's declaration that he, Vega, would be guarding the brig and its sole occupant.

Commander Shepard.

Commander Shepard was not even in the brig: she was in the mess hall, flanked by MPs, drinking coffee. Sitting down and radiating a sense of personal serenity—or maybe just that blankness of deep shock, word about that system she'd supposedly blown up was out—she seemed very small. Not at all what he expected.

He wasn't sure how to feel, now that he was face-to-face with her.

She'd destroyed the Collector homeworld, making the deaths of the Fehl Prime colonists a complete waste.

She'd been a hero to him and yet had blown the entire system—and everyone in it—to oblivion.

She'd been the first human Spectre, N7, the Hero of the Blitz, the Hero of the Citadel, and so much more.

But there she sat, drinking coffee like anyone else, looking a little tired, with bruises and scrapes all over her forearms—defensive wounds—so clearly she bled and showed damage like anyone else.

Suddenly…she wasn't an icon or a legend. She was only human. And he wasn't sure how to feel about that, either. Relieved? Disappointed? Perplexed?

"Admiral on deck!" came the inevitable announcement.

Shepard looked up, got to her feet then saluted. She did it in what seemed like a single, streamlined motion—clearly there was an understood camaraderie between Anderson and herself. There was no starch in the salute. They were both N7. It made sense.

"Admiral."

Now that she was on her feet, he realized she was taller than he expected (though somewhat narrower and less curvy). She also didn't radiate any sort of 'come get it' sort of toughness. Her eyes, though, bright and vivid, neither blue nor green, were intelligent. And they passed over him like the too-bright lights of a d-con chamber.

"Shepard. How's the coffee?"

"Last of the Raspberry Drizzle. Someone's taste was all in her mouth," Shepard shrugged. "Plenty left, though."

"Later. Gentlemen, you can stand down," Anderson motioned to the MPs.

Shepard watched them leave over the rim of her coffee cup, darted another glance at Vega, then gave her attention to Anderson.

"This is Lt. Vega," Anderson said without preamble. "I tapped him for security."

"I see." Her tone said 'he's out of uniform.'

Which he was. But he didn't feel nit-picked. It was a fair observation.

"He's unconventional, true enough." It was like she'd shared her observation with the room.

…it was kinda creepy.

"And you already know the Commander," Anderson remarked to Vega, who nodded.

Shepard put her coffee on the table and held out a hand. "Lieutenant."

He shook the offered hand, finding that her grip was firm. She was clearly someone who gauged people by their handshake, when she did shake hands. He did that, too.

He wondered if limp fish handshakes made her uncomfortable. They made him uncomfortable.

"Get acquainted, then get settled, Shepard. Things'll move quickly once we get to Arcturus," Anderson dictated. "We'll get you set up later, Vega. Just keep an eye on her door; she's clear for this deck and only this deck."

He wasn't keeping her _in_. He was being prepped to keep trouble _out_. That made sense.

"Yes sir." An easy confinement, a vote of confidence. He recognized that 'confinement' and 'brig' were just words thrown about to lend some credence to the proceedings.

Shepard finished her coffee wordlessly, withdrawn into herself once the niceties concluded.

Vega found himself feeling…weird, standing around while Shepard read her datapad. There didn't seem to be anything to say and not because he was afraid of sounding dumb. There was something in Shepard's aura that forestalled all questions, that requested silence in which to brood without going so far as to demand it.

She washed out her mug, put it in the rack, frowned at the rack, then took a deep breath. "I'll try not to cause you any headaches." With that, she headed for the door to the brig.

"Ma'am?"

She stopped, turned, and gave him her full attention. "Yes, Lieutenant?"

"Why?" The word, like the hail for her attention, came out involuntarily. He wasn't even sure why he asked, though he was sure he sounded a lot younger than he liked.

Shepard looked him straight in the eye, then looked away as though weary beyond words. But she answered the question without any indication she found it offensive. "There's such a thing as a no-win scenario, Lieutenant." There was regret and painful certainty: she'd done what she'd done for the good of the larger galaxy. She believed that much.

She ached for the collateral damages, but recognized necessity: there was remorse but not _guilt_.

…he kind of knew that feeling.

Vega's illusions shattered until the blunt force of the reality as Shepard withdrew to the 'brig.' Once the door slid closed behind her, he let out a long breath he hadn't even realized he was holding.

He didn't try to sweep up the fragments and dust of shattered illusions.

She wasn't 'The Great Commander Shepard' or even 'a Hero' (capital letter and all). She hadn't shattered his illusions because she fell short of the mark.

She'd obliterated them because she was somehow more than the mark, at once more humanly fallible and larger than life than he ever thought her to be. In less than five minutes she'd destroyed years of admiration, leveled the pedestal upon which her likeness had once stood.

In less than five minutes she'd swept the shattered illusions aside, replaced them with a real person who could be respected but not idolized in any way, presented herself as a person holding an umbrella overhead—and it was the umbrella that carried the record of her achievements and successes while she herself disappeared beneath the shadow it cast.

In short, she stopped being an idea and started being a person.

-J-

Author's Note: This is the end! Thank you to all my readers, reviewers, those who followed and faved! Your support was integral to the completion of this work. Keep your eyes peeled for _Newton's Third Law_!


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